The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 16, No. 97, November, 1865. VariousЧитать онлайн книгу.

      'Tisn't so bad a day,

      Although it's a little cloudy,—

      Or rather, as one might say,

                      Smoky, perhaps,—

      A little hazy, a little dubious,

      A little too sulphury to be salubrious.

      D' ye mind those thunder-claps?

      Do you feel now and then the least little bit

      Of an incipient earthquake fit,

      Accompanied with awful raps?

      But give 'em gowdy, give 'em gowdy,

      And it'll soon clear away!

      Old Boss ain't to be balked.—

      All this, you know,

      Was only the way (or nearly so)

      The boys talked,

      And felt and thought,

      (And acted, too,)

      The harder they fought

      And the hotter it grew.—

      But there was a Hand at the reel

                      That nobody saw,—

      Old Hickory there at every keel,

      In every timber, from stem to stern,—

      A something in every crank and wheel,

      That made 'em answer their turn;

      And everywhere,

      On earth and water, in fire and air,

      As it were to see it all well done,

      The Wraith of the murdered Law,—

      Old John Brown at every gun!

      But the Fort was all in a roar:

      No use to talk, they had the range,—

      Which wasn't strange,

      Guess they'd tried it before,—

      And the pounding was not soft,

      But might well appall

      The boldest heart.

      Cool and calm,

      Trumpet in hand,

      Up in the cock-loft,

      Where 'twas the hottest of all,

      Our brave old Commodore

      Took his stand,

      And played his part,

      Humming over some old psalm!

      Tut! did ye hear the hiss and scream

      Of that hot steam?

      It's the Essex that's struck,—

      She never had any luck:

      Ah, 'twas a wicked shot,

      And, whether they know it or not,

      It doesn't give us joy!

      Thorough an open port it flew,

      As with some special permit to destroy;

      And first, for sport,

      Struck the soul from that beautiful boy;

      Then through the bulkhead lunged,

      And into the boiler plunged,

      Scalding the whole crew!

      We know that the brave must fall,—

      But that was a sight to see:

                      Twenty-three,

      All in an instant scalded and scathed,

      All at once in the white shroud swathed!

      A low moan came from the deck

      Of the drifting wreck,—

                      And that was all.

      How the traitors'll boast,

      As soon as they come to see her

      All adrift and aghast!—

      Hark! d' ye hear? d' ye hear?

      D' ye hear 'em shout?

      They see it already, no doubt.

      We shall have to count her out,—

      That white breath was her last,—

      She has given up the ghost!

      What does the old Boss think?

                      Will he shrink?

      Will he waver or falter now?—

      A little shadow flits over his brow,

      For the sharp pang in his heart,—

      Flits over—and is gone,—

      And a light looms up in his old gray eye,

      Whether you see it or not,

      That is like a sudden dawn

                      In a stormy sky!

      What does he think?

      What will he do?—

      Well! he don't say!

      But I'll tell you what,

      You can bet your life,

      As you would your knife,

      And your wife, too,

                      He'll do

      (And put 'em up at once!)—

      He'll run these boats right up to their guns,

      And take that Fort, or sink!

      But, oh—oh, it was hot!

      So thick and fast the solid shot

      Upon our iron armor played,

      It kept, like thunder, a kind of time—

      Devil's tattoo or gallopade—

      That, like an awful, awful rhyme,

                      Rang in the ear;

      And they sent us cheer after cheer.

      But the boys had been to school,

      And their guns were not cool;

      For they knew what Cause they served,

      And not a man of 'em swerved!

      But on, right on, they swept,

      And from every grim bow-port

      Their nutmegs and shell-barks leaped

      Into the jaws of the Fort!

      And (to give her, perhaps, a chance to breathe)

      Knocked out some of her big, black teeth!

      And (to raise a better crop, no doubt,

      Than was ever raised there before)

      Ploughed her up into awful creases,

                      Inside and out!—

      For