Oh, ye daughters of Kentucky, ere your pæans are begun, Your lips shall falter when they tell how Shiloh’s fight was won! Your hands shall weave the victor crown of laurels, but in vain; His marble brow shall never feel, nor pulse beat quick again. Oh, South, be sure a heart so pure had never loved so well! A country which had wronged him sore he pardoned ere he fell. FLEMING JAMES. 23 THE RIVER FIGHT 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 chilling 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. 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! First, as we answered their flash, ’Twas lightning and black eclipse, With a bellowing roll and crash. But soon upon either bow, What with forts and fire-rafts and ships, (The whole fleet was hard at it now, All pounding away!) and Porter Still thundering with shell and mortar,-- ’Twas the mighty sound and form Of an equatorial storm. But, as we worked along higher, Just where the river enlarges, Down came a pyramid of fire,-- It was one of your long coal barges. (We had oft had the like before!) ’Twas coming down to larboard, Well in with the eastern shore. And our pilot, to let it pass round, (You may guess we never stopped to sound,) Giving us a rank sheer to starboard, Ran the Flag hard and fast aground! ’Twas nigh abreast of the upper fort, And straightway a rascal ram (She was shaped like the devil’s dam!) Puffed away for us, with a snort, And shoved it, with spiteful strength, Right alongside of us, to port;-- It was all of our ship’s length, A huge crackling cradle of the pit, Pitch-pine knots to the brim, Belching flame red and grim;-- What a roar came up from it! In a twinkling the flames had risen Half way to the main-top and mizzen, Darting up the shrouds like snakes! Ah, how we clanked at the brakes! And the deep steam-pumps throbbed under, Sending a ceaseless flow;-- Our top-men, a dauntless crowd, Swarmed in rigging and shroud;-- There, (’twas a wonder!) The burning ratlins and strands They quenched with their bare hard hands; But the great guns below Never silenced their thunder!