_Hail to Hobson! hail to Hobson! hail to all the valiant set!_ _Clausen, Kelly, Deignan, Phillips, Murphy, Montagu, Charette!_ _Howsoe’er we laud and laurel we shall be their debtors yet!_ _Shame upon us, shame upon us, should the nation e’er forget!_ Though the tale be worn with telling, let the daring deed be sung! Surely never brighter valor, since this wheeling world was young, Thrilled men’s souls to more than wonder, till praise leaped from every tongue! Trapped at last the Spanish sea-fox in the hill-locked harbor lay; Spake the Admiral from his flagship, rocking off the hidden bay, “We must close yon open portal lest he slip by night away!” “Volunteers!” the signal lifted; rippling through the fleet it ran; Was there ever deadlier venture? was there ever bolder plan? Yet the gallant sailors answered, answered wellnigh to a man! Ere the dawn’s first rose-flush kindled, swiftly sped the chosen eight Toward the batteries grimly frowning o’er the harbor’s narrow gate; Sooth, he holds his life but lightly who thus gives the dare to Fate! They had passed the outer portal where the guns grinned, tier o’er tier, When portentous Morro thundered, and Socapa echoed clear, And Estrella joined a chorus pandemoniac to hear. Heroes without hands to waver, heroes without hearts to quail, There they sank the bulky collier ’mid the hurtling Spanish hail; Long shall float our starry banner if such lads beneath it sail! _Hail to Hobson! hail to Hobson! hail to all the valiant set!_ _Clausen, Kelly, Deignan, Phillips, Murphy, Montagu, Charette!_ _Howsoe’er we laud and laurel we shall be their debtors yet!_ _Shame upon us, shame upon us, should the nation e’er forget!_ CLINTON SCOLLARD. 52 THE CHARGE AT SANTIAGO With shot and shell, like a loosened hell, Smiting them left and right, They rise or fall on the sloping wall Of beetling bush and height! They do not shrink at the awful brink Of the rifle’s hurtling breath, But onward press, as their ranks grow less, To the open arms of death! Through a storm of lead, o’er maimed and dead, Onward and up they go, Till hand to hand the unflinching band Grapple the stubborn foe. O’er men that reel, ’mid glint of steel, Bellow or boom of gun, They leap and shout over each redoubt Till the final trench is won! O charge sublime! Over dust and grime Each hero hurls his name In shot or shell, like a molten hell, To the topmost heights of fame! And prone or stiff, under bush and cliff, Wounded or dead men lie, While the tropic sun on a grand deed done Looks with his piercing eye! WILLIAM HAMILTON HAYNE. (By special permission of the author.) 53 SPAIN’S LAST ARMADA