Our ship and her fame to-day Shall float on the storied Stream When mast and shroud have crumbled away, And her long white deck is a dream. One daring leap in the dark, Three mortal hours, at the most,-- And hell lies stiff and stark On a hundred leagues of coast. For the mighty Gulf is ours,-- The bay is lost and won, An Empire is lost and won! Land, if thou yet hast flowers, Twine them in one more wreath Of tenderest white and red, (Twin buds of glory and death!) For the brows of our brave dead, For thy Navy’s noblest son. Joy, O Land, for thy sons, Victors by flood and field! The traitor walls and guns Have nothing left but to yield; (Even now they surrender!) And the ships shall sail once more, And the cloud of war sweep on To break on the cruel shore;-- But Craven is gone, He and his hundred are gone. The flags flutter up and down At sunrise and twilight dim, The cannons menace and frown,-- But never again for him, Him and the hundred. The Dahlgrens are dumb, Dumb are the mortars; Never more shall the drum Beat to colors and quarters,-- The great guns are silent. O brave heart and loyal! Let all your colors dip;-- Mourn him proud ship! From main deck to royal. God rest our Captain, Rest our lost hundred! Droop, flag and pennant! What is your pride for? Heaven, that he died for, Rest our Lieutenant, Rest our brave threescore! * * * * * O Mother Land! this weary life We led, we lead, is ’long of thee; Thine the strong agony of strife, And thine the lonely sea. Thine the long decks all slaughter-sprent, The weary rows of cots that lie With wrecks of strong men, marred and rent, ’Neath Pensacola’s sky. And thine the iron caves and dens Wherein the flame our war-fleet drives; The fiery vaults, whose breath is men’s Most dear and precious lives! Ah, ever when with storm sublime Dread Nature clears our murky air, Thus in the crash of falling crime Some lesser guilt must share. Full red the furnace fires must glow That melt the ore of mortal kind; The mills of God are grinding slow, But ah, how close they grind! To-day the Dahlgren and the drum Are dread Apostles of His Name; His kingdom here can only come By chrism of blood and flame. Be strong: already slants the gold Athwart these wild and stormy skies; From out this blackened waste, behold What happy homes shall rise! But see thou well no traitor gloze, No striking hands with Death and Shame, Betray the sacred blood that flows So freely for thy name.