All sobbing, shrieking, swirls the gale,
December in its sweep,
Till ocean’s hoary face is pale
With foam, abysses deep;
Then see within the furious spray
A ship against the gray!
The sirens sing by George’s shoal
And lure their victim in,
So the _Lord Gough_, through surge and roll,
The dismal drift and din,
Comes round to where the breakers comb
Into sheer, wind-swept foam.
They see, half-way the shattered mast,
The Stars and Stripes stand out;
They hear, above the howling blast,
Old Hughes, with mighty shout,
“Now, boys, three hearty English cheers!
Come forward, volunteers!”
They man their boat, these gallant tars,
Though skies beat down the sea--
When falls the flag with all its stars,
Then to the masthead free
Runs up, the blue above, to swear,
“For us Fate still is fair!”
In frosty blasts that seek to blow
Their valor from the helm,
They row as they would have you row
When billows overwhelm:
The baffled storm its witness bears--
The _Cleopatra’s_ theirs!
He thaws the winter from his bone,
He mourns the ship so gone,
And Pendleton tells great gales blown,
Despair since drifting dawn;
Water-logged, with his boats stove in,
What hope was his to win?
He saw the sailors on the _Gough_--
Death stood before his eyes,
He knew they would be putting off
Where seas beat back the skies;
His flag free on the tempest flew
Lest they should perish too....
While Englishmen in mercy go
Cheering, to war with Death,
While the Americans can throw
Off hope, for others’ breath,
A tyrant Fate need slink afraid,
From clear eyes, undismayed.
And oh, ye folk of English speech,
When such a brood ye’ve borne,
What favor need ye e’er beseech
From Fate so ripe for scorn?
’Tis yours, ye freemen, by your birth,
All that ye will on earth!