V. Victory! Victory!... But suddenly wrecked and wrapt in seething steam, the _Essex_ Slowly drifted out of the battle’s storm; Slowly, slowly down--laden with the dead and dying; And there at the captain’s feet, among the dead and the dying, The shot-marred form of a beautiful boy is lying-- There in his uniform! VI. Laurels and tears for thee, boy, Laurels and tears for thee! Laurels of light, moist with the precious dew Of the inmost heart of the nation’s loving heart, And blest by the balmy breath of the beautiful and the true; Moist--moist with the luminous breath of the singing spheres And the nation’s starry tears! And tremble-touched by the pulse-like gush and start Of the universal music of the heart, And all deep sympathy. Laurels and tears for thee, boy, Laurels and tears for thee-- Laurels of light and tears of love forevermore-- For thee! VII. And laurels of light, and tears of truth, And the mantle of immortality; And the flowers of love and immortal youth, And the tender heart-tokens of all true ruth-- And the everlasting victory! And the breath and bliss of Liberty; And the loving kiss of Liberty; And the welcoming light of heavenly eyes, And the over-calm of God’s canopy; And the infinite love-span of the skies That cover the valleys of Paradise-- For all of the brave who rest with thee; And for one and all who died with thee, And now sleep side by side with thee; And for every one who lives and dies, On the solid land or the heaving sea, Dear warrior-boy--like thee. VIII. O the victory--the victory Belongs to thee! God ever keeps the brightest crown for such as thou-- He gives it now to thee! O young and brave, and early and thrice blest-- Thrice, thrice, thrice blest! Thy country turns once more to kiss thy youthful brow, And takes thee--gently--gently to her breast; And whispers lovingly, “God bless thee--bless thee now-- My darling, thou shalt rest!” [Illustration] [Illustration] THE “CUMBERLAND.” BY H. W. LONGFELLOW. At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, On board the _Cumberland_ sloop of war, And at times from the fortress across the bay The alarm of drums swept past, Or a bugle blast From the camp on 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.