Verse > Anthologies > Ralph Waldo Emerson, ed. > Parnassus: An Anthology of Poetry
Ralph Waldo Emerson, comp. (1803–1882).  Parnassus: An Anthology of Poetry.  1880.
The Bay Fight
By Henry Howard Brownell (1820–1872)
 “On the forecastle. Ulf the Red
  Watched the lashing of the ships—
‘If the Serpent lies so far ahead,
  We shall have hard work of it here,’
    Said he.”

THREE 1 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,        5
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        10
  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.        15
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.
Yet coast-wise as we cruised or lay,        20
  The land-breeze still at nightfall bore,
By beach and fortress-guarded bay,
  Sweet odors from the enemy’s shore,
Fresh from the forest solitudes,
  Unchallenged of his sentry lines,—        25
The bursting of his cypress buds,
  And the warm fragrance of his pines.
Ah, never braver bark and crew,
  Nor bolder Flag a foe to dare,
Had left a wake on ocean blue        30
  Since Lion-Heart sailed Trenc-le-mer! 2
But little gain by that dark ground
  Was ours, save, sometime, freer breath
For friend or brother strangely found,
  ’Scaped from the drear domain of death.        35
And little venture for the bold,
  Or laurel for our valiant Chief,
  Save some blockaded British thief,
Full fraught with murder in his hold,
Caught unawares at ebb or flood,        40
  Or dull bombardment, day by day,
  With fort and earth-work, far away,
Low couched in sullen leagues of mud.
A weary time,—but to the strong
  The day at last, as ever, came;        45
And the volcano, laid so long,
  Leaped forth in thunder and in flame!
  “Man your starboard battery!”
  Kimberly shouted;—
The ship, with her hearts of oak,        50
Was going, ’mid roar and smoke,
    On to victory!
None of us doubted,
No, not our dying,—
Farragut’s Flag was flying!        55
Gaines growled low on our left,
  Morgan roared on our right;—
Before us, gloomy and fell,
With breath like the fume of hell,
Lay the Dragon of iron shell,        60
  Driven at last to the fight!
Ha, old ship! do they thrill,
  The brave two hundred scars
  You got in the River-Wars?
That were leeched with clamorous skill,        65
  (Surgery savage and hard,)
Splinted with bolt and beam,
Probed in scarfing and seam,
  Rudely tinted and tarred
With oakum and boiling pitch,        70
And sutured with splice and hitch,
  At the Brooklyn Navy-Yard!
Our lofty spars were down,
To bide the battle’s frown,
(Wont of old renown)—        75
But every ship was drest
In her bravest and her best,
  As if for a July day;
Sixty flags and three,
  As we floated up the bay—        80
At every peak and mast-head flew
The brave Red, White, and Blue,—
  We were eighteen ships that day.
With hawsers strong and taut,
The weaker lashed to port,        85
  On we sailed two by two—
That if either a bolt should feel
Crash through caldron or wheel,
Fin of bronze, or sinew of steel,
  Her mate might bear her through.        90
Forging boldly ahead,
The great Flag-Ship led,
  Grandest of sights!
On her lofty mizzen flew
Our Leader’s dauntless Blue,        95
  That had waved o’er twenty fights;
So we went, with the first of the tide,
  Slowly, ’mid the roar
  Of the rebel guns ashore
And the thunder of each full broadside.        100
Ah, how poor the prate
Of statute and state
  We once held with these fellows!
Here, on the flood’s pale-green,
  Hark how he bellows,        105
  Each bluff old Sea-Lawyer!
Talk to them Dahlgren,
  Parrott, and Sawyer!
On, in the whirling shade
  Of the cannon’s sulphury breath,        110
  We drew to the Line of Death
That our devilish Foe had laid,—
Meshed in a horrible net,
  And baited villanous well,
Right in our path were set        115
  Three hundred traps of hell!
And there, O sight forlorn!
  There, while the cannon
    Hurtled and thundered,—
  (Ah, what ill raven        120
Flapped o’er the ship that morn!)—
Caught by the under-death,
In the drawing of a breath
  Down went dauntless Craven,
    He and his hundred!        125
A moment we saw her turret,
  A little heel she gave,
And a thin white spray went o’er her,
  Like the crest of a breaking wave;—
In that great iron coffin,        130
  The channel for their grave,
  The fort their monument,
(Seen afar in the offing,)
Ten fathom deep lie Craven
  And the bravest of our brave.        135
Then, in that deadly track,
A little the ships held back,
  Closing up in their stations;—
There are minutes that fix the fate
  Of battles and of nations,        140
  (Christening the generations)
When valor were all too late,
  If a moment’s doubt be harbored;—
From the main-top, bold and brief,
Came the word of our grand old chief,—        145
    “Go on!”—’twas all he said,—
  Our helm was put to starboard,
    And the Hartford passed ahead.
Ahead lay the Tennessee,
  On our starboard bow he lay,        150
With his mail-clad consorts three,
  (The rest had run up the Bay,)—
There he was, belching flame from his bow,
And the steam from his throat’s abyss
Was a Dragon’s maddened hiss;—        155
  In sooth a most cursed craft!—
In a sullen ring, at bay,
By the Middle Ground they lay,
  Raking us, fore and aft.
  Trust me, our berth was hot,        160
  Ah, wickedly well they shot—
How their death-bolts howled and stung!
  And the water-batteries played
  With their deadly cannonade
Till the air around us rung;        165
So the battle raged and roared;—
Ah, had you been aboard
  To have seen the fight we made!
How they leaped, the tongues of flame,
  From the cannon’s fiery lip!        170
How the broadsides, deck and frame,
  Shook the great ship!
  And how the enemy’s shell
  Came crashing, heavy and oft,
  Clouds of splinters flying aloft        175
And falling in oaken showers;—
  But ah, the pluck of the crew!
Had you stood on that deck of ours,
  You had seen what men may do.
Still, as the fray grew louder,        180
  Boldly they worked and well—
Steadily came the powder,
  Steadily came the shell.
And if tackle or truck found hurt,
  Quickly they cleared the wreck—        185
And the dead were laid to port,
  All a-row, on our deck.
  Never a nerve that failed,
  Never a cheek that paled,
Not a tinge of gloom or pallor;—        190
  There was bold Kentucky’s grit,
And the old Virginian valor,
  And the daring Yankee wit.
There were blue eyes from turfy Shannon,
  There were black orbs from palmy Niger,—        195
But there, alongside the cannon,
  Each man fought like a tiger!
A little, once, it looked ill,
  Our consort began to burn—
They quenched the flames with a will,        200
But our men were falling still,
  And still the fleet was astern.
Right abreast of the Fort
  In an awful shroud they lay,
  Broadsides thundering away,        205
And lightning from every port;
  Scene of glory and dread!
A storm-cloud all aglow
  With flashes of fiery red,
The thunder raging below,        210
  And the forest of flags o’erhead!
So grand the hurly and roar,
  So fiercely their broadsides blazed,
The regiments fighting ashore
  Forgot to fire as they gazed.        215
  There, to silence the Foe,
  Moving grimly and slow,
They loomed in that deadly wreath,
  Where the darkest batteries frowned,—
  Death in the air all round,        220
And the black torpedoes beneath!
And now, as we looked ahead,
  All for’ard, the long white deck,
Was growing a strange dull red—
  But soon, as once and again        225
Fore and aft we sped,
  (The firing to guide or check,)
You could hardly choose but tread
  On the ghastly human wreck,
(Dreadful gobbet and shred        230
  That a minute ago were men!)
Red, from main-mast to bitts!
  Red, on bulwark and wale,
Red, by combing and hatch,
  Red, o’er netting and vail!        235
And ever, with steady con,
  The ship forged slowly by,—
And ever the crew fought on,
  And their cheers rang loud and high.
Grand was the sight to see        240
  How by their guns they stood,
Right in front of our dead,
  Fighting square abreast,—
  Each brawny arm and chest
All spotted with black and red,        245
  Chrism of fire and blood!
Worth our watch, dull and sterile,
  Worth all the weary time,
Worth the woe and the peril,
  To stand in that strait sublime!        250
Fear? A forgotten form!
  Death? A dream of the eyes!
We were atoms in God’s great storm
  That roared through the angry skies.
One only doubt was ours,        255
  One only dread we knew,—
Could the day that dawned so well
Go down for the Darker Powers?
  Would the fleet get through?
And ever the shot and shell        260
Came with the howl of hell,
The splinter-clouds rose and fell,
  And the long line of corpses grew,—
  Would the fleet win through?
They are men that never will fail,        265
  (How aforetime they’ve fought!)
But Murder may yet prevail,—
  They may sink as Craven sank.
Therewith one hard fierce thought,
Burning on heart and lip,        270
Ran like fire through the ship,—
  Fight her, to the last plank!
A dimmer renown might strike
  If Death lay square alongside,—
But the Old Flag has no like,        275
  She must fight, whatever betide;—
When the War is a tale of old,
And this day’s story is told,
  They shall hear how the Hartford died!
But as we ranged ahead,        280
  And the leading ships worked in,
  Losing their hope to win,
The enemy turned and fled—
And one seeks a shallow reach;
  And another, winged in her flight,        285
  Our mate, brave Jouett, brings in;—
  And one, all torn in the fight,
Runs for a wreck on the beach,
  Where her flames soon fire the night.
And the Ram, when well up the Bay,        290
  And we looked that our stems should meet,
(He had us fair for a prey,)
Shifting his helm midway,
  Sheered off, and ran for the fleet;
There, without skulking or sham,        295
  He fought them, gun for gun.
And ever he sought to ram,
  But could finish never a one.
From the first of the iron shower
  Till we sent our parting shell,        300
’Twas just one savage hour
  Of the roar and the rage of hell.
With the lessening smoke and thunder,
  Our glasses around we aim,—
What is that burning yonder?        305
  Our Philippi—aground and in flame!
Below, ’twas still all a-roar,
As the ships went by the shore,
  But the fire of the Fort had slacked,
(So fierce their volleys had been)—        310
And now, with a mighty din,
The whole fleet came grandly in,
  Though sorely battered and wracked.
So, up the Bay we ran,
  The Flag to port and ahead—        315
And a pitying rain began
  To wash the lips of our dead.
A league from the Fort we lay,
  And deemed that the end must lag,—
When lo! looking down the Bay,        320
  There flaunted the Rebel Rag;—
The Ram is again under way
  And heading dead for the Flag!
Steering up with the stream,
  Boldly his course he lay,        325
Though the fleet all answered his fire,
And, as he still drew nigher,
  Ever on bow and beam
  Our Monitors pounded away;—
  How the Chickasaw hammered away!        330
Quickly breasting the wave,
  Eager the prize to win,
First of us all the brave
  Monongahela went in
Under full head of steam;—        335
Twice she struck him abeam,
Till her stem was a sorry work,
  (She might have run on a crag!)
The Lackawana hit fair,
He flung her aside like cork,        340
  And still he held for the Flag.
High in the mizzen shroud,
  (Lest the smoke his sight o’erwhelm,)
Our Admiral’s voice rang loud,
  “Hard-a-starboard your helm!        345
Starboard! and run him down!”
  Starboard it was,—and so,
Like a black squall’s lifting frown,
Our mighty bow bore down
  On the iron beak of the Foe.        350
We stood on the deck together,
  Men that had looked on death
In battle and stormy weather,—
  Yet a little we held our breath,
  When, with the hush of death,        355
The great ships drew together.
Our Captain strode to the bow,
  Drayton, courtly and wise,
  Kindly cynic, and wise,
(You hardly had known him now,        360
  The flame of fight in his eyes!)—
His brave heart eager to feel
How the oak would tell on the steel!
But, as the space grew short,
  A little he seemed to shun us,        365
Out peered a form grim and lanky,
  And a voice yelled—“Hard-a-port!
Hard-a-port!—here’s the damned Yankee
  Coming right down on us!”
He sheered, but the ships ran foul        370
With a gnarring shudder and growl:
  He gave us a deadly gun;
But, as he passed in his pride,
(Rasping right alongside!)
  The Old Flag, in thunder-tones,        375
Poured in her port broadside,
Rattling his iron hide,
  And cracking his timber bones!
Just then, at speed on the Foe,
  With her bow all weathered and brown,        380
  The great Lackawana came down
Full tilt, for another blow;—
We were forging ahead,
  She reversed—but, for all our pains,
Rammed the old Hartford, instead,        385
  Just for’ard the mizzen chains!
Ah! how the masts did buckle and bend,
  And the stout hull ring and reel,
As she took us right on end!
  (Vain were engine and wheel,        390
  She was under full steam)—
With the roar of a thunder-stroke
Her two thousand tons of oak
  Brought up on us, right abeam!
A wreck, as it looked, we lay,—        395
(Rib and plank shear gave way
  To the stroke of that giant wedge!)
Here, after all, we go—
The old ship is gone!—ah, no,
  But cut to the water’s edge.        400
Never mind then,—at him again!
  His flurry now can’t last long;
He’ll never again see land,—
Try that on him, Marchand!
  On him again, brave Strong!        405
Heading square at the hulk,
  Full on his beam we bore;
But the spine of the huge Sea-Hog
Lay on the tide like a log,
  He vomited flame no more.        410
By this, he had found it hot;—
  Half the fleet, in an angry ring,
  Closed round the hideous Thing,
Hammering with solid shot,
And bearing down, bow on bow,—        415
  He has but a minute to choose;
Life or renown?—which now
  Will the Rebel Admiral lose?
Cruel, haughty, and cold,
He ever was strong and bold;—        420
  Shall he shrink from a wooden stem?
He will think of that brave band
He sank in the Cumberland;—
  Ay, he will sink like them.
Nothing left but to fight        425
Boldly his last sea-fight!
  Can he strike? By Heaven, ’tis true!
  Down comes the traitor Blue,
And up goes the captive White!
Up went the White! Ah, then        430
The hurrahs that, once and again,
Rang from three thousand men
  All flushed and savage with fight!
Our dead lay cold and stark,
But our dying, down in the dark,        435
  Answered as best they might,
Lifting their poor lost arms,
  And cheering for God and Right!
Ended the mighty noise,
  Thunder of forts and ships.        440
  Down we went to the hold,—
Oh, our dear dying boys!
  How we pressed their poor brave lips,
    (Ah, so pallid and cold!)
  And held their hands to the last        445
    (Those that had hands to hold.)
Still thee, O woman heart!
  (So strong an hour ago)—
If the idle tears must start,
  ’Tis not in vain they flow.        450
They died, our children dear,
  On the drear berth-deck they died,—
Do not think of them here—
Even now their footsteps near
The immortal, tender sphere—        455
(Land of love and cheer!
  Home of the Crucified!)
And the glorious deed survives.
  Our threescore, quiet and cold,
Lie thus, for a myriad lives        460
  And treasure-millions untold,—
(Labor of poor men’s lives,
Hunger of weans and wives,
  Such is war-wasted gold.)
Our ship and her fame to-day        465
  Shall float on the storied Stream
When mast and shroud have crumbled away,
  And her long white deck is a dream.
One daring leap in the dark,
  Three mortal hours, at the most,—        470
And hell lies stiff and stark
  On a hundred leagues of coast.
For the mighty Gulf is ours,—
    The bay is lost and won,
    An Empire is lost and won!        475
Land, if thou yet hast flowers,
Twine them in one more wreath
  Of tenderest white and red,
(Twin buds of glory and death!)
  For the brows of our brave dead,—        480
    For thy Navy’s noblest Son.
Joy, O Land, for thy sons,
  Victors by flood and field!
The traitor walls and guns
  Have nothing left but to yield;—        485
  (Even now they surrender!)
And the ships shall sail once more,
  And the cloud of war sweep on
To break on the cruel shore;—
  But Craven is gone,        490
  He and his hundred are gone.
The flags flutter up and down
  At sunrise and twilight dim,
The cannons menace and frown,—
  But never again for him,        495
  Him and the hundred.
The Dahlgrens are dumb,
  Dumb are the mortars;
Never more shall the drum
  Beat to colors and quarters,—        500
  The great guns are silent.
O brave heart and loyal!
  Let all your colors dip;—
  Mourn him, proud ship!
From main deck to royal.        505
  God rest our Captain,
  Rest our lost hundred!
Droop, flag and pennant!
  What is your pride for?
  Heaven, that he died for,        510
Rest our Lieutenant.
  Rest our brave threescore!
O Mother Land! this weary life
  We led, we lead, is ’long of thee;
Thine the strong agony of strife,        515
  And thine the lonely sea.
Thine the long decks all slaughter-sprent,
  The weary rows of cots that lie
With wrecks of strong men, marred and rent,
  ’Neath Pensacola’s sky.        520
And thine the iron caves and dens
  Wherein the flame our war-fleet drives;
The fiery vaults, whose breath is men’s
  Most dear and precious lives!
Ah, ever, when with storm sublime        525
  Dread Nature clears our murky air,
Thus in the crash of falling crime
  Some lesser guilt must share.
Full red the furnace fires must glow
  That melt the ore of mortal kind:        530
The Mills of God are grinding slow,
  But ah, how close they grind!
To-day the Dahlgren and the drum
  Are dread Apostles of His Name;
His Kingdom here can only come        535
  By chrism of blood and flame.
Be strong: already slants the gold
  Athwart these wild and stormy skies;
From out this blackened waste, behold
  What happy homes shall rise!        540
But see thou well no traitor gloze,
  No striking hands with Death and Shame,
Betray the sacred blood that flows
  So freely for thy name.
And never fear a victor foe:—        545
  Thy children’s hearts are strong and high;
Nor mourn too fondly;—well they know
  On deck or field to die.
Nor shalt thou want one willing breath,
  Though, ever smiling round the brave,        550
The blue sea bear us on to death,
  The green were one wide grave.

U. S. Flag-ship Hartford, Mobile Bay,
    August, 1864.
Note 1. Mobile Bay, Aug. 5, 1864. [back]
Note 2. The flag-ship of Richard I. [back]

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