"On the forecastle, Ulf the Red

Watched the lashing of the ships'If the Serpent lies so far ahead,

We shall have hard work of it here,'
Said he."

THREE days through sapphire seas we sailed,

The steady Trade blew strong and free,

The Northern Light his banners paled,

The Ocean Stream our channels wet, We rounded low Canaveral's lee, And passed the isles of emerald set In blue Bahama's turquoise sea.

By reef and shoal obscurely mapped, And hauntings of the gray sea-wolf, The palmy Western Key lay lapped In the warm washing of the Gulf.

But weary to the hearts of all

The burning glare, the barren reach

Of Santa Rosa's withered beach, And Pensacola's ruined wall.

And weary was the long patrol,

The thousand miles of shapeless strand,

From Brazos to San Blas that roll Their drifting dunes of desert sand.

Yet coast-wise as we cruised or lay, The land-breeze still at nightfall bore,

By beach and fortress-guarded bay, Sweet odors from the enemy's shore,

Mobile Bay, Aug. 5, 1864.

Fresh from the forest solitudes,

Unchallenged of his sentry lines, The bursting of his cypress buds, And the warm fragrance of his pines.

Ah, never braver bark and crew,
Nor bolder Flag a foe to dare,
Had left a wake on ocean blue
Since Lion-Heart sailed Trenc-le-

mer!*

But little gain by that dark ground Was ours, save, sometime, freer breath

For friend or brother strangely found,

'Scaped from the drear domain of death.

And little venture for the bold,

Or laurel for our valiant Chief, Save some blockaded British thief, Full fraught with murder in his hold,

You got in the River-Wars? That were leeched with clamorous

skill,

(Surgery savage and hard,)
Splinted with bolt and beam,
Probed in scarfing and seam,
Rudely linted and tarred
With oakum and boiling pitch,
And sutured with splice and hitch,
At the Brooklyn Navy-Yard!

Our lofty spars were down,
To bide the battle's frown,
(Wont of old renown) —
But every ship was drest
In her bravest and her best,
As if for a July day;
Sixty flags and three,

As we floated up the bay-
At every peak and mast-head flew
The brave Red, White, and Blue,

We were eighteen ships that day.

With hawsers strong and taut,
The weaker lashed to port,

On we sailed two by two
That if either a bolt should feel
Crash through caldron or wheel,
Fin of bronze, or sinew of steel,

Her mate might bear her through.

Forging boldly ahead,
The great Flag-Ship led,
Grandest of sights!

On her lofty mizzen flew
Our Leader's dauntless Blue,

That had waved o'er twenty
fights;

So we went, with the first of the tide,

Slowly, 'mid the roar

Of the rebel guns ashore

And the thunder of each full broad

Ahead lay the Tennessee,

On our starboard bow he lay, With his mail-clad consorts three,

(The rest had run up the Bay,)— There he was, belching flame from his bow,

And the steam from his throat's

abyss

Was a Dragon's maddened hiss; -
In sooth a most cursed craft!
In a sullen ring, at bay,

By the Middle Ground they lay,
Raking us, fore and aft.

They are men that never will fail,
(How aforetime they've fought!)
But Murder may yet prevail,

They may sink as Craven sank.
Therewith one hard fierce thought,
Burning on heart and lip,
Ran like fire through the ship, -
Fight her, to the last plank!

A dimmer renown might strike

If Death lay square alongside, But the Old Flag has no like,

She must fight, whatever betide; When the War is a tale of old, And this day's story is told,

They shall hear how the Hartford died!

But as we ranged ahead,

And the leading ships worked in, Losing their hope to win, The enemy turned and fled And one seeks a shallow reach;

And another, winged in her flight, Our mate, brave Jouett, brings in:

And one, all torn in the fight, Runs for a wreck on the beach, Where her flames soon fire the night.

And the Ram, when well up the Bay, And we looked that our stems should meet, (He had us fair for a prey,) Shifting his helm midway,

Sheered off, and ran for the fleet; There, without skulking or sham,

He fought them, gun for gun. And ever he sought to ram,

But could finish never a one.

From the first of the iron shower Till we sent our parting shell, 'Twas just one savage hour

Of the roar and the rage of hell.

and

And deemed that the end must lag,

When lo! looking down the Bay,

There flaunted the Rebel Rag; The Ram is again under way

And heading dead for the Flag!

Steering up with the stream,
Boldly his course he lay,
Though the fleet all answered his
fire,

And, as he still drew nigher,

Ever on bow and beam

Our Monitors pounded away;—
How the Chickasaw hammered
away!

Quickly breasting the wave,
Eager the prize to win,
First of us all the brave

Monongahela went in
Under full head of steam;-
Twice she struck him abeam,
Till her stem was a sorry work,
(She might have run on a crag!)
The Lackawana hit fair,
He flung her aside like cork,
And still he held for the Flag.

High in the mizzen shroud,
(Lest the smoke his sight o'er-
whelm,)

Our Admiral's voice rang loud,
"Hard-a-starboard your helm!
Starboard! and run him down!"