_A flag came out at early morn
Bringing surrender. From their towers
Floats out the banner late their scorn.
In Dover, hut and house are full
Of rebels dead or dying.
The national flag is flying
From the crammed court-house pinnacle.
Great boat-loads of our wounded go
To-day to Nashville. The sleet-winds blow;
But all is right: the fight is won,
The winter-fight for Donelson.
Hurrah!
The spell of old defeat is broke,
The Habit of victory begun;
Grant strikes the war’s first sounding stroke
At Donelson.
For lists of killed and wounded, see
The morrow’s dispatch: to-day ’tis victory._
The man who read this to the crowd
Shouted as the end he gained;
And though the unflagging tempest rained,
They answered him aloud.
And hand grasped hand, and glances met
In happy triumph; eyes grew wet.
O, to the punches brewed that night
Went little water. Windows bright
Beamed rosy on the sleet without,
And from the deep street came the frequent shout;
While some in prayer, as these in glee,
Blessed heaven for the winter-victory.
But others were who wakeful laid
In midnight beds, and early rose,
And, feverish in the foggy snows,
Snatched the damp paper--wife and maid.
The death-list like a river flows
Down the pale sheet,
And there the whelming waters meet.
Ah God! may Time with happy haste
Bring wail and triumph to a waste,
And war be done;
The battle flag-staff fall athwart
The curs’d ravine, and wither; naught
Be left of trench or gun;
The bastion, let it ebb away,
Washed with the river bed; and Day
In vain seek Donelson.
The Cumberland.
(March, 1862.)
Some names there are of telling sound,
Whose voweled syllables free
Are pledge that they shall ever live renowned;
Such seem to be
A Frigate’s name (by present glory spanned)--
The Cumberland.
Sounding name as ere was sung,
Flowing, rolling on the tongue--
Cumberland! Cumberland!
She warred and sunk. There’s no denying
That she was ended--quelled;
And yet her flag above her fate is flying,
As when it swelled
Unswallowed by the swallowing sea: so grand--
The Cumberland.
Goodly name as ere was sung,
Roundly rolling on the tongue--
Cumberland! Cumberland!
What need to tell how she was fought--
The sinking flaming gun--
The gunner leaping out the port--
Washed back, undone!
Her dead unconquerably manned
The Cumberland.
Noble name as ere was sung,
Slowly roll it on the tongue--
Cumberland! Cumberland!
Long as hearts shall share the flame
Which burned in that brave crew,
Her fame shall live--outlive the victor’s name;
For this is due.
Your flag and flag-staff shall in story stand--
Cumberland!
Sounding name as ere was sung,
Long they’ll roll it on the tongue--
Cumberland! Cumberland!
In the Turret.
(March, 1862.)
Your honest heart of duty, Worden,
So helped you that in fame you dwell;
You bore the first iron battle’s burden
Sealed as in a diving-bell.
Alcides, groping into haunted hell
To bring forth King Admetus’ bride,
Braved naught more vaguely direful and untried.
What poet shall uplift his charm,
Bold Sailor, to your height of daring,
And interblend therewith the calm,
And build a goodly style upon your bearing.
Escaped the gale of outer ocean--
Cribbed in a craft which like a log
Was washed by every billow’s motion--
By night you heard of Og
The huge; nor felt your courage clog
At tokens of his onset grim:
You marked the sunk ship’s flag-staff slim,
Lit by her burning sister’s heart;
You marked, and mused: “Day brings the trial:
Then be it proved if I have part
With men whose manhood never took denial.”
A prayer went up--a champion’s. Morning
Beheld you in the Turret walled
by adamant, where a spirit forewarning
And all-deriding called:
“Man, darest thou--desperate, unappalled--
Be first to lock thee in the armored tower?
I have thee now; and what the battle-hour
To me shall bring--heed well--thou’lt share;
This plot-work, planned to be the foeman’s terror,
To thee may prove a goblin-snare;
Its very strength and cunning--monstrous error!”
“Stand up, my heart; be strong; what matter
If here thou seest thy welded tomb?
And let huge Og with thunders batter--
Duty be still my doom,
Though drowning come in liquid gloom;
First duty, duty next, and duty last;
Ay, Turret, rivet me here to duty fast!--”
So nerved, you fought wisely and well;
And live, twice live in life and story;
But over your Monitor dirges swell,
In wind and wave that keep the rites of glory.