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Page 145
Oh God! Oh God! How my woman's heart
Thrills with a quick, convulsive pain,
As I view, unrolled by the magic of Art,
One dreadful scene from the battle-plain:--
White as the foam of the storm-tossed wave,
Lone as the rocks those billows lave--
Gray sky above--cold clay beneath--
A gallant form lies stretched in death!
With his calm face fresh on the trampled clay,
And the brave hands clasped o'er the manly breast:
Save the sanguine stains on his jacket gray,
We might deem him taking a soldier's rest.
Ah no! Too red is that crimson tide--
Too deeply pierced that wounded side;
Youth, hope, love, glory--manhood's pride--
Have all in vain Death's bolt defied.
His faithful carbine lies useless there,
As it dropped from its master's nerveless ward;
And the sunbeams glance on his waving hair
Which the fallen cap has ceased to guard--
Oh Heaven! spread o'er it thy merciful shield,
No more to my sight be the battle revealed!
Oh fiercer than tempest--grim Hades as dread--
On woman's eye flashes the field of the dead!
The scene is changed: In a quiet room,
Far from the spot where the lone corse lies,
A mother kneels in the evening gloom
To offer her nightly sacrifice.
The noon is past, and the day is done,
She knows that the battle is lost or won--
Who lives? Who died? Hush! be thou still!
The boy lies dead on the trench-barred hill.
Battle of Hampton Roads.
By Ossian D. Gorman.
Ne'er had a scene of beauty smiled
On placid waters 'neath the sun,
Like that on Hampton's watery plain,
The fatal morn the fight begun.
Far toward the silvery Sewell shores,
Below the guns of Craney Isle,
Were seen our fleet advancing fast,
Beneath the sun's auspicious smile.
Oh, fatal sight! the hostile hordes
Of Newport camp spread dire alarms:
The Cumberland for fight prepares--
The fierce marines now rush to arms.
The Merrimac, strong cladded o'er,
In quarters close begins her fire,
Nor fears the rushing hail of shot,
And deadly missiles swift and dire;
But, rushing on 'mid smoke and flame,
And belching thunder long and loud,
Salutes the ship with bow austere,
And then withdraws in wreaths of cloud.
The work is done. The frigate turns
In agonizing, doubtful poise--
She sinks, she sinks! along the deck
Is heard a shrieking, wailing noise.
Engulfed beneath those placid waves
Disturbed by battle's onward surge,
The crew is gone; the vessel sleeps,
And whistling bombshells sing her dirge.
The battle still is raging fierce:
The Congress, "high and dry" aground,
Maintains in vain her boasted power,
For now the gunboats flock around,
With "stars and bars" at mainmast reared,
And pour their lightning on the main,
While Merrimac, approaching fast
Sends forth her shell and hot-shot rain.
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