But all along the levee, In a dark and drenching rain, (By this ’twas pouring heavy,) Stood a fierce and sullen train, A strange and frenzied time! There were scowling rage and pain, Curses, howls, and hisses, Out of Hate’s black abysses,-- Their courage and their crime All in vain--all in vain! For from the hour that the Rebel Stream With the Crescent City lying abeam, Shuddered under our keel, Smit to the heart with self-struck sting, Slavery died in her scorpion-ring And Murder fell on his steel. ’Tis well to do and dare; But ever may grateful prayer Follow, as aye it ought, When the good fight is fought, When the true deed is done. Aloft in heaven’s pure light, (Deep azure crossed on white,) Our fair Church pennant waves O’er a thousand thankful braves, Bareheaded in God’s bright sun. Lord of mercy and frown, Ruling o’er sea and shore, Send us such scene once more! All in line of battle When the black ships bear down On tyrant fort and town, ’Mid cannon cloud and rattle; And the great guns once more Thunder back the roar Of the traitor walls ashore, And the traitor flags come down. [Illustration] [Illustration] SHERIDAN’S RIDE. BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. Up from the south, at break of day, Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, The affrighted air with a shudder bore, Like a herald in haste to the chieftain’s door, The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, Telling the battle was on once more, And Sheridan twenty miles away. And wider still those billows of war Thunder’d along the horizon’s bar; And louder yet into Winchester roll’d The roar of that red sea uncontroll’d, Making the blood of the listener cold, As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, With Sheridan twenty miles away. But there is a road from Winchester town, A good broad highway leading down: And there, through the flush of the morning light, A steed as black as the steeds of night Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight, As if he knew the terrible need He stretch’d away with his utmost speed; Hills rose and fell; but his heart was gay, With Sheridan fifteen miles away. Still sprang from those swift hoofs, thundering south, The dust like smoke from the cannon’s mouth, Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. The heart of the steed and the heart of the master Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, Impatient to be where the battle-field calls; Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, With Sheridan only ten miles away.