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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 broadside.

Ah, how poor the prate

Of statute and state

We once held these fellows!

Here on the flood's pale-green,
Hark how he bellows,

Each bluff old Sea-Lawyer !

Talk to them, Dahlgren,

Parrott, and Sawyer!

On, in the whirling shade
Of the cannon's sulphury breath,
We drew to the Line of Death
That our devilish Foe had laid,—
Meshed in a horrible net,
And baited villainous well,
Right in our path were set

Three hundred traps of hell!

And there, O sight forlorn!
There, while the cannon

Hurtled and thundered,

(Ah, what ill raven

Flapped o'er the ship that morn !)— Caught by the under-death,

In the drawing of a breath

Down went dauntless Craven,

He and his hundred !

A moment we saw her turret,

A little heel she gave,

And a thin white spray went o'er her,
Like the crest of a breaking wave;—
In that great iron coffin,

The channel for their grave,
The fort their monument,
(Seen afar in the offing),
Ten fathom deep lie Craven
And the bravest of our brave.

Then in that deadly track

A little the ships held back,

Closing up in their stations ;

There are minutes that fix the fate
Of battles and of nations,

(Christening the generations,)

When valor were all too late,

If a moment's doubt be harbored ;

From the main-top, bold and brief,
Came the word of our grand old chief :
"Go on!"—'t was all he said,—
Our helm was put to starboard,
And the Hartford passed ahead.

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.

Trust me, our berth was hot,

Ah, wickedly well they shot

How their death-bolts howled and stung!
And the water-batteries played
With their deadly cannonade

Till the air around us rung;

So the battle raged and roared ;

Ah, had you been aboard

To have seen the fight we made!

How they leapt, the tongues of flame,
From the cannon's fiery lip!

How the broadsides, deck and frame,
Shook the great ship!

And how the enemy's shell
Came crashing, heavy and oft,
Clouds of splinters flying aloft
And falling in oaken showers ;—
But ah, the pluck of the crew!
Had you stood on that deck of ours,
You had seen what men may do.

Still, as the fray grew louder,
Boldly they worked and well-
Steadily came the powder,
Steadily came the shell.

And if tackle or truck found hurt,
Quickly they cleared the wreck-
And the dead were laid to port,
All a-row, on our deck.

Never a nerve that failed,

Never a cheek that paled,

Not a tinge of gloom or pallor ;-
There was bold Kentucky's grit,
And the old Virginian valor,
And the daring Yankee wit.
Vol. II.

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