Would you hear of the river fight?
It was two of a soft spring night;
God’s stars looked down on all,
And all was clear and bright
But the low fog’s chilling breath;--
Up the River of Death
Sailed the great Admiral.
On our high poop-deck he stood,
And round him ranged the men
Who have made their birthright good
Of manhood once and again,--
Lords of helm and of sail,
Tried in tempest and gale.
Who could fail with him?
Who reckon of life or limb?
Not a pulse but beat the higher!
There had you seen, by the starlight dim
Five hundred faces strong and grim;
The Flag is going under fire!
Right up by the fort
With her helm hard aport,
The _Hartford_ is going under fire!
First, as we answered their flash,
’Twas lightning and black eclipse,
With a bellowing roll and crash.
But soon upon either bow,
What with forts and fire-rafts and ships,
(The whole fleet was hard at it now,
All pounding away!) and Porter
Still thundering with shell and mortar,--
’Twas the mighty sound and form
Of an equatorial storm.
But, as we worked along higher,
Just where the river enlarges,
Down came a pyramid of fire,--
It was one of your long coal barges.
(We had oft had the like before!)
’Twas coming down to larboard,
Well in with the eastern shore.
And our pilot, to let it pass round,
(You may guess we never stopped to sound,)
Giving us a rank sheer to starboard,
Ran the Flag hard and fast aground!
’Twas nigh abreast of the upper fort,
And straightway a rascal ram
(She was shaped like the devil’s dam!)
Puffed away for us, with a snort,
And shoved it, with spiteful strength,
Right alongside of us, to port;--
It was all of our ship’s length,
A huge crackling cradle of the pit,
Pitch-pine knots to the brim,
Belching flame red and grim;--
What a roar came up from it!
In a twinkling the flames had risen
Half way to the main-top and mizzen,
Darting up the shrouds like snakes!
Ah, how we clanked at the brakes!
And the deep steam-pumps throbbed under,
Sending a ceaseless flow;--
Our top-men, a dauntless crowd,
Swarmed in rigging and shroud;--
There, (’twas a wonder!)
The burning ratlins and strands
They quenched with their bare hard hands;
But the great guns below
Never silenced their thunder!
At last, by backing and sounding,
When we were clear of grounding,
And under headway once more,
The whole rebel fleet came rounding
The point;--if we had it hot before,
’Twas now, from shore to shore,
One long, loud thundering roar,--
Such crashing, splintering, and pounding,
And smashing as you never heard before!
For all above was battle,
Broadside, and blaze, and rattle,
Smoke and thunder alone!--
(But, down in the sick-bay,
Where our wounded and dying lay,
There was scarce a sob or a moan.)
And at last, when the dim day broke,
And the sullen sun awoke,
Drearily blinking
O’er the haze and the cannon-smoke,
That ever such morning dulls,
There were thirteen hulls
On fire and sinking!
And on the dolorous strand,
To greet the victor-brave,
One flag did welcome wave,
Raised, ah, me! by a wretched hand,
All outworn on our cruel land,
The withered hand of a slave!
’Tis well to do and dare,--
But ever may grateful prayer
Follow, as aye it ought,
When the good fight is fought,
When the true deed is done!
Aloft in heaven’s pure light,
(Deep azure crossed on white)
Our fair church-pennant waves
O’er a thousand thankful braves,
Bareheaded in God’s bright sun.