THE CUMBERLAND.

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THE CUMBERLAND.

AT anchor in Hampton Roads we lay,

On board the Cumberland, sloop-of-war ;

And at times from the fortress across the bay
The alarum of drums swept past,

Or a bugle blast

From the camp on the shore.

Then far away to the south uprose

A little feather of snow-white smoke, And we knew that the iron ship of our foes Was steadily steering its course

To try the force

Of 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 straight
Defiance back in a full broadside !
As hail rebounds from a roof of slate,
Rebounds our heavier hail

From each iron scale

Of 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 pealed

With 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 breath

For 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 air

Was 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!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

A Naval Ode.

I.

YE mariners of England,

That guard our native seas,

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze,

Your glorious standard launch again

To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep

While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy tempests blow.

II.

The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from every wave!

For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave:

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.

III.

Britannia needs no bulwark,

No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,
Her home is on the deep.

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With thunders from her native oak,
She quells the floods below,
As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy tempests blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.

IV.

The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;

Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.

Then, then, ye ocean-warriors,
Our song and feast shall flow,
To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

LOSS OF THE "ROYAL GEORGE."

TOLL for the brave!

The brave that are no more!

All sunk beneath the wave,

Fast by their native shore !

Eight hundred of the brave,
Whose courage well was tried,
Had made the vessel keel,
And laid her on her side.

LOSS OF THE “ROYAL GEORGE."

A land-breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset ;

Down went the "Royal George,"
With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!

Brave Kempenfelt is gone ;
His last sea-fight is fought,
His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle;
No tempest gave the shock;
She sprang no fatal leak,
She ran upon no rock.

His sword was in its sheath,
His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down,
With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up,

Once dreaded by our foes!
And mingle with our cup
The tear that England owes.

Her timbers yet are sound,
And she may float again,

Full charged with England's thunder,

And plough the distant main :

But Kempenfelt is gone,

His victories are o'er ;

And he and his eight hundred
Shall plough the wave no more.

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WM. COWPer.