But drums are beat: _Up anchor all!_ The triple lines steam slowly on; Day breaks, and through the sweep of decks each man Stands coldly by his gun-- As cold as it. But he shall warm-- Warm with the solemn metal there, And all its ordered fury share, In attitude a gladiatorial form. The Admiral--yielding the love Which held his life and ship so dear-- Sailed second in the long fleet’s midmost line; Yet thwarted all their care: He lashed himself aloft, and shone Star of the fight, with influence sent Throughout the dusk embattlement; And so they neared the strait and walls of stone. No sprintly fife as in the field, The decks were hushed like fanes in prayer; Behind each man a holy angel stood-- He stood, though none was ’ware. Out spake the forts on either hand, Back speak the ships when spoken to, And set their flags in concert true, And _On and in!_ is Farragut’s command. But what delays? ’mid wounds above Dim buoys give hint of death below-- Sea-ambuscades, where evil art had aped Hecla that hides in snow. The centre-van, entangled, trips; The starboard leader holds straight on: A cheer for the Tecumseh!--nay, Before their eyes the turreted ship goes down! The fire redoubles, While the fleet Hangs dubious--ere the horror ran-- The Admiral rushes to his rightful place-- Well met! apt hour and man!-- Closes with peril, takes the lead, His action is a stirring call; He strikes his great heart through them all, And is the genius of their daring deed. The forts are daunted, slack their fire, Confounded by the deadlier aim And rapid broadsides of the speeding fleet, And fierce denouncing flame. Yet shots from four dark hulls embayed Come raking through the loyal crews, Whom now each dying mate endues With his last look, anguished yet undismayed. A flowering time to guilt is given, And traitors have their glorying hour; O late, but sure, the righteous Paramount comes-- Palsy is on their power! So proved it with the rebel keels, The strong-holds past: assailed, they run; The Selma strikes, and the work is done: The dropping anchor the achievement seals. But no, she turns--the Tennessee! The solid Ram of iron and oak, Strong as Evil, and bold as Wrong, though lone-- A pestilence in her smoke. The flag-ship is her singled mark, The wooden Hartford. Let her come; She challenges the planet of Doom, And naught shall save her--not her iron bark. _Slip anchor, all! and at her, all!_ _Bear down with rushing beaks--and_ now! First the Monongahela struck--and reeled; The Lackawana’s prow Next crashed--crashed, but not crashing; then The Admiral rammed, and rasping nigh Sloped in a broadside, which glanced by: The Monitors battered at her adamant den.