“Trim every sail by the head, (So shall you spare the lead,) Lest if she ground, your ship swing round, Bows in shore, for a wreck. See your grapnels all clear with pains, And a solid kedge in your port main-chains, With a whip to the main yard: Drop it heavy and hard When you grappel a traitor deck! “On forecastle and on poop Mount guns, as best you may deem. If possible, rouse them up (For still you must bow the stream). Also hoist and secure with stops Howitzers firmly in your tops, To fire on the foe abeam. “Look well to your pumps and hose; Have water tubs fore and aft, For quenching flame in your craft, And the gun crew’s fiery thirst. See planks with felt fitted close, To plug every shot-hole tight. Stand ready to meet the worst! For, if I have reckoned aright, They will serve us shot, Both cold and hot, Freely enough to-night. “Mark well each signal I make,-- (Our life-long service at stake, And honor that must not lag!) What e’er the peril and awe, In the battle’s fieriest flaw, Let never one ship withdraw Till the orders come from the flag!” * * * * * Would you hear of the river fight? It was two of a soft spring night; God’s stars looked down on all; And all was clear and bright But the low fog’s clinging breath; Up the River of Death Sailed the great Admiral. On our high poop-deck he stood, And round him ranged the men Who have made their birthright good Of manhood once and again,-- Lords of helm and of sail, Tried in tempest and gale, Bronzed in battle and wreck. Bell and Bailey grandly led Each his line of the Blue and Red; Wainwright stood by our starboard rail; Thornton fought the deck. And I mind me of more than they, Of the youthful, steadfast ones, That have shown them worthy sons Of the seamen passed away. Tyson conned our helm that day; Watson stood by his guns. What thought our Admiral then, Looking down on his men? Since the terrible day,-- (Day of renown and tears!) When at anchor the _Essex_ lay,-- Holding her foes at bay,-- When a boy by Porter’s side he stood, Till deck and plank-shear were dyed with blood; ’Tis half a hundred years,-- Half a hundred years to a day! Who could fail with him? Who reckon of life or limb? Not a pulse but beat the higher! There had you seen, by the starlight dim, Five hundred faces strong and grim: The Flag is going under fire! Right up by the fort, With her helm hard aport, The _Hartford_ is going under fire!