One only doubt was ours,

One only dread we knew, Could the day that dawned so well Go down for the Darker Powers? Would the fleet get through? And ever the shot and shell Came with the howl of hell, The splinter-clouds rose and fell, And the long line of corpses grew,

Would the fleet win through?

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.

You, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh,

Judging each step as though the way were plain;

Reckless, so it could point its paragraph

Of chief's perplexity, or people's pain:

Beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet

The Stars and Stripes he lived to

rear anew,

Between the mourners at his head and feet,

Say, scurrile jester, is there room for you?

Yes: he had lived to shame me from my sneer,

To lame my pencil, and confute my pen;

To make me own this hind of princes peer,

This rail-splitter a true-born king of men.

My shallow judgment I had learned to rue,

Noting how to occasion's height he rose;

How his quaint wit made home-truth seem more true;

How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows.

How humble, yet how hopeful he could be:

How in good fortune and in ill, the

same:

Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he,

Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame.

He went about his work,- such work as few

Ever had laid on head and heart and hand,

As one who knows, where there's a task to do,

Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace command;

Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow,

That God makes instruments to work his will,