The man who read this to the crowd Shouted as the end he gained; And though the unflagging tempest rained, They answered him aloud. And hand grasped hand, and glances met In happy triumph; eyes grew wet. O, to the punches brewed that night Went little water. Windows bright Beamed rosy on the sleet without, And from the deep street came the frequent shout; While some in prayer, as these in glee, Blessed heaven for the winter-victory. But others were who wakeful laid In midnight beds, and early rose, And, feverish in the foggy snows, Snatched the damp paper--wife and maid. The death-list like a river flows Down the pale sheet, And there the whelming waters meet. Ah God! may Time with happy haste Bring wail and triumph to a waste, And war be done; The battle flag-staff fall athwart The curs’d ravine, and wither; naught Be left of trench or gun; The bastion, let it ebb away, Washed with the river bed; and Day In vain seek Donelson. The Cumberland. (March, 1862.) Some names there are of telling sound, Whose voweled syllables free Are pledge that they shall ever live renowned; Such seem to be A Frigate’s name (by present glory spanned)-- The Cumberland. Sounding name as ere was sung, Flowing, rolling on the tongue-- Cumberland! Cumberland! She warred and sunk. There’s no denying That she was ended--quelled; And yet her flag above her fate is flying, As when it swelled Unswallowed by the swallowing sea: so grand-- The Cumberland. Goodly name as ere was sung, Roundly rolling on the tongue-- Cumberland! Cumberland! What need to tell how she was fought-- The sinking flaming gun-- The gunner leaping out the port-- Washed back, undone! Her dead unconquerably manned The Cumberland. Noble name as ere was sung, Slowly roll it on the tongue-- Cumberland! Cumberland! Long as hearts shall share the flame Which burned in that brave crew, Her fame shall live--outlive the victor’s name; For this is due. Your flag and flag-staff shall in story stand-- Cumberland! Sounding name as ere was sung, Long they’ll roll it on the tongue-- Cumberland! Cumberland! In the Turret. (March, 1862.) Your honest heart of duty, Worden, So helped you that in fame you dwell; You bore the first iron battle’s burden Sealed as in a diving-bell. Alcides, groping into haunted hell To bring forth King Admetus’ bride, Braved naught more vaguely direful and untried. What poet shall uplift his charm, Bold Sailor, to your height of daring, And interblend therewith the calm, And build a goodly style upon your bearing.