Seasons have passed since that day and year; Again o’er its pebbles the brook runs clear, And the field in a richer green is dressed Where the dead of the terrible conflict rest. Hushed is the roll of the rebel drum, The sabres are sheathed, and the cannon dumb; And Fate, with pitiless hand, has furled The flag that once challenged the gaze of the world. But the fame of the Wilderness fight abides; And down into history grandly rides, Calm and unmoved as in battle he sat, The gray-bearded man in the black slouch-hat. JOHN RANDOLPH THOMPSON. 43 CRAVEN Over the turret, shut in his ironclad tower, Craven was conning his ship through smoke and flame; Gun to gun he had battered the fort for an hour, Now was the time for a charge to end the game. There lay the narrowing channel, smooth and grim, A hundred deaths beneath it, and never a sign; There lay the enemy’s ships, and sink or swim The flag was flying, and he was head of the line. The fleet behind was jamming: the monitor hung Beating the stream; the roar for a moment hushed; Craven spoke to the pilot; slow she swung; Again he spoke, and right for the foe she rushed Into the narrowing channel, between the shore And the sunk torpedoes lying in treacherous rank; She turned but a yard too short; a muffled roar, A mountainous wave, and she rolled, righted, and sank. Over the manhole, up in the ironclad tower, Pilot and captain met as they turned to fly: The hundredth part of a moment seemed an hour, For one could pass to be saved, and one must die. They stood like men in a dream; Craven spoke,-- Spoke as he lived and fought, with a captain’s pride: “After you, Pilot.” The pilot woke, Down the ladder he went, and Craven died. All men praise the deed and the manner; but we-- We set it apart from the pride that stoops to the proud, The strength that is supple to serve the strong and free, The grace of the empty hands and promises loud; Sidney thirsting a humbler need to slake, Nelson waiting his turn for the surgeon’s hand, Lucas crushed with chains for a comrade’s sake, Outram coveting right before command, These were paladins, these were Craven’s peers, These with him shall be crowned in story and song, Crowned with the glitter of steel and the glimmer of tears, Princes of courtesy, merciful, proud, and strong. HENRY NEWBOLT. (By special permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company, and of John Lane.) 44 GRACIE OF ALABAMA On, sons of mighty stature, And souls that match the best! When nations name their jewels Let Alabama rest. Gracie of Alabama! ’Twas on that dreadful day When howling hounds were fiercest With Petersburg at bay.