Just then, at speed on the Foe, With her bow all weathered and brown, The great _Lackawanna_ came down Full tilt, for another blow;-- We were forging ahead, She reversed--but, for all our pains, Rammed the old _Hartford_, instead, Just for’ard the mizzen chains! Ah! how the masts did buckle and bend, And the stout hull ring and reel, As she took us right on end! (Vain were engine and wheel, She was under full steam,)-- With the roar of a thunder-stroke Her two thousand tons of oak Brought up on us, right abeam! A wreck, as it looked, we lay,-- (Rib and plank shear gave way To the stroke of that giant wedge!) Here, after all, we go-- The old ship is gone!--ah, no, But cut to the water’s edge. Never mind then,--at him again! His flurry now can’t last long; He’ll never again see land,-- Try that on _him_, Marchand! On him again, brave Strong! Heading square at the hulk, Full on his beam we bore; But the spine of the huge Sea-Hog Lay on the tide like a log, He vomited flame no more. By this, he had found it hot;-- Half the fleet, in an angry ring, Closed round the hideous thing, Hammering with solid shot, And bearing down, bow on bow; He has but a minute to choose,-- Life or renown?--which now Will the Rebel Admiral lose? Cruel, haughty, and cold, He ever was strong and bold; Shall he shrink from a wooden stem? He will think of that brave band He sank in the _Cumberland_; Ay, he will sink like them. Nothing left but to fight Boldly his last sea-fight! Can he strike? By Heaven, ’tis true! Down comes the traitor Blue, And up goes the captive White! Up went the White! Ah, then The hurrahs that once and again Rang from three thousand men All flushed and savage with fight! Our dead lay cold and stark; But our dying, down in the dark, Answered as best they might, Lifting their poor lost arms, And cheering for God and Right! Ended the mighty noise, Thunder of forts and ships. Down we went to the hold, Oh, our dear dying boys! How we pressed their poor brave lips (Ah, so pallid and cold!) And held their hands to the last, (Those who had hands to hold). Still thee, O woman heart! (So strong an hour ago;) If the idle tears must start, ’Tis not in vain they flow. They died, our children dear. On the drear berth-deck they died,-- Do not think of them here-- Even now their footsteps near The immortal, tender sphere-- (Land of love and cheer! Home of the Crucified!). And the glorious deed survives; Our threescore, quiet and cold, Lie thus, for a myriad lives And treasure--millions untold,-- (Labor of poor men’s lives, Hunger of weans and wives, Such is war-wasted gold).