Of thirty-two guns, David Porter, esq. commander, in the neutral port of Valparisso, on the coast of Chili, in South America, January, 1814, by the british frigate Phoebe, capt. Hillyer, of forty-nine guns, and the Cherub of thirty-two guns. "All the devils were there, and hell was empty!" From cruising near the southern pole Where wild antarctic oceans roll, With a gallant crew, a manly soul, Heroic Porter came. Then, weathering round the stormy cape, And facing death in every shape, Which Anson[A] hardly could escape, (So says the page of fame.) [A] See Lord Anson's voyage round the world between 1740 and 1744, by his chaplain, the rev. Richard Walter. The terrors and dangers of a winter passage round Cape Horn into the Western Ocean, are depicted in that work by a masterly hand, who was witness to the scene.--_Freneau's note._ He made the high chilesian coast, The Andes, half in vapor lost, The Andes, topp'd with snow and frost, Eternal winter's reign! Then, to the rugged western gale, He spread the broad columbian sail; And, Valparisso, thy fair vale Received him, with his men. There, safely moor'd, his colors fly, Columbia's standard waved on high; The neutral port, his friends, were nigh; So gallant Porter thought; Nor deem'd a foe would heave in sight Regardless of all neutral right; And yet, that foe he soon must fight, And fight them as he ought. His Essex claim'd his fondest care, With her he every storm could dare, With her, to meet the blast of war, His soul was still in trim: In her he cruised the northern main, In her he pass'd the burning line, In her he all things could attain, If all would act like him. At length, two hostile ships appear, And for the port they boldly steer-- The Phoebe first, and in her rear The Cherub, all secure. They loom'd as gay as for a dance, Or ladies painted in romance-- Do, mind how boldly they advance. Who can their fire endure? The Phoebe mounted forty-nine-- All thought her on some grand design-- Does she alone the fight decline? Say, Captain Hillyer, say? The Cherub's guns were thirty-two-- And, Essex! full a match for you-- Yet to her bold companion true, She hugg'd her close, that day. Ye powers, that rule the southern pole! Are these the men of English soul? Do these, indeed, the waves control? Are these the ocean's lords? Though challenged singly to the fight (As Porter, Hillyer, did invite) These men of spunk, these men of might, Refused to measure swords!