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 awrack, 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! [Illustration] [Illustration] ON BOARD THE “CUMBERLAND.” (March 8, 1862.) BY GEORGE H. BOKER. “Stand to your guns, men!” Morris cried. Small need to pass the word; Our men at quarters ranged themselves, Before the drum was heard. And then began the sailors’ jests: “What thing is that, I say?” “A ’long-shore meeting-house adrift Is standing down the bay!” A frown came over Morris’ face; The strange, dark craft he knew; “That is the iron _Merrimac_, Manned by a rebel crew. “So shot your guns, and point them straight; Before this day goes by, We’ll try of what her metal ’s made.” A cheer was our reply. “Remember boys, this flag of ours Has seldom left its place; And where it falls, the deck it strikes Is covered with disgrace. “I ask but this: or sink or swim, Or live or nobly die, My last sight upon earth may be To see that ensign fly!” Meanwhile the shapeless iron mass Came moving o’er the wave, As gloomy as a passing hearse, As silent as the grave. Her ports were closed, from stem to stem No sign of life appeared. We wondered, questioned, strained our eyes, Joked,--every thing but feared. She reached our range. Our broadside rang, Our heavy pivots roared; And shot and shell, a fire of hell, Against her sides we poured.