THE CUMBERLAND.
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t anchor in Hampton Roads we lay,On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war;And at times from the fortress across the bayThe alarum of drums swept past,Or a bugle blastFrom the camp on the shore. Then far away to the south uproseA little feather of snow-white smoke,And we knew that the iron ship of our foesWas steadily steering its courseTo try the forceOf our ribs of oak. Down upon us heavily runs,Silent and sullen, the floating fort;Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns,And leaps the terrible death,With fiery breath,From each open port. We are not idle, but send her straightDefiance back in a full broadside!As hail rebounds from a roof of slate,Rebounds our heavier hailFrom each iron scaleOf the monster's hide. "Strike your flag!" the rebel cries,In his arrogant old plantation strain."Never!" our gallant Morris replies;"It is better to sink than to yield!"And the whole air pealedWith the cheers of our men. Then, like a kraken huge and black,She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp!Down went the Cumberland all a wrack,With a sudden shudder of death,And the cannon's breathFor her dying gasp. Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay,Still floated our flag at the mainmast-head.Lord, how beautiful was thy day!Every waft of the airWas a whisper of prayer,Or a dirge for the dead. Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas!Ye are at peace in the troubled stream,Ho! brave land! with hearts like these,Thy flag, that is rent in twain,Shall be one again,And without a seam!
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