So raged the battle. You know the rest: How the rebels, beaten and backward pressed, Broke at the final charge, and ran. At which John Burns--a practical man-- Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows, And then went back to his bees and cows. That is the story of old John Burns; This is the moral the reader learns: In fighting the battle, the question's whether You'll show a hat that's white, or a feather! TWILIGHT ON SUMTER RICHARD HENRY STODDARD [Sidenote: Aug. 24, 1863] _After the surrender of Major Anderson, the Confederates strengthened the fort; but, in the spring of 1863, the U. S. guns on Morris Island battered it into a shapeless ruin._ Still and dark along the sea Sumter lay; A light was overhead, As from burning cities shed, And the clouds were battle-red, Far away. Not a solitary gun Left to tell the fort had won, Or lost the day! Nothing but the tattered rag Of the drooping Rebel flag, And the sea-birds screaming round it in their play. How it woke one April morn, Fame shall tell; As from Moultrie, close at hand, And the batteries on the land, Round its faint but fearless band Shot and shell Raining hid the doubtful light; But they fought the hopeless fight Long and well, (Theirs the glory, ours the shame!) Till the walls were wrapt in flame, Then their flag was proudly struck, and Sumter fell. Now--oh, look at Sumter now, In the gloom! Mark its scarred and shattered walls, (Hark! the ruined rampart falls!) There's a justice that appals In its doom; For this blasted spot of earth Where Rebellion had its birth Is its tomb! And when Sumter sinks at last From the heavens, that shrink aghast, Hell shall rise in grim derision and make room! THE BAY-FIGHT HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL [Sidenote: August 5, 1864] _The poet was acting ensign on the staff of Admiral Farragut, when he led his squadron past Forts Morgan and Gaines, and into a victorious fight with the Confederate fleet in the Bay of Mobile. The poem is here somewhat shortened._ Three days through sapphire seas we sailed, The steady Trade blew strong and free, The Northern Light his banners paled, The Ocean Stream our channels wet, We rounded low Canaveral's lee, And passed the isles of emerald set In blue Bahama's turquoise sea. By reef and shoal obscurely mapped, And hauntings of the gray sea-wolf, The palmy Western Key lay lapped In the warm washing of the Gulf. But weary to the hearts of all The burning glare, the barren reach Of Santa Rosa's withered beach, And Pensacola's ruined wall. And weary was the long patrol, The thousand miles of shapeless strand, From Brazos to San Blas that roll Their drifting dunes of desert sand.