Then Porter burst out from his mortars, In jets of fiery spray, As if a volcano had open'd Where his leaf-clad vessels lay. Howling, and screeching, and whizzing, Dropp'd down on the low, doom'd fortress Shattering earth and granite to atoms The whole air quaked and shudder'd Fort Jackson and Fort St. Philip, . By this time were flashing and thundering Through the hulks and the cables, sunder'd By the bold Itasca's crew, Went Bailey in silence, though round him No answer he made to their welcome, Then, oh! but he sent them a greeting Meanwhile, the old man in the Hartford Yes, paused in that deadly tornado Have you any notion, you landsmen, I tell you, the air is nigh solid Perch'd aloft in the forward rigging, And the fort's huge faces of granite Now quicker and quicker we fired, While the fort, like a mighty cauldron, So thick fell the clouds o'er the river, "Full head! Steam across to St. Philip! St. Philip grew faint in replying, Its voice of thunder was drown'd. "But, ha! what is this? Back the engines! Back, back! The ship is aground !” And down the swift current came sweeping Under our port side it came. At once the good Hartford was blazing, "We are lost! "No, no; we are moving!" Away whirl'd the crackling raft. The fire was soon quench'd. One last broadside We gave to the surly fort; For above us the rebel gunboats Were wheeling like devils at sport. And into our vacant station Had glided a bulky form : 'Twas Craven's stout Brooklyn, demanding Her share of the furious storm. We could hear the shot of St. Philip And the crash of her answering broadsides We could hear the low growl of Craven, Then, ranging close under our quarter, He waved his blue cap as he passed us; Of Lawrence the hero, was burning Right and left flash'd his heavy broadsides; Was a target for his shot. All burning and sinking around him The victor, seem'd doom'd with the vanquish'd, And he took up the bloody conflict, And glimmer'd from shore to shore. But while powder would burn in a cannon, I think our old captains in heaven, Paul Jones, the knight-errant of ocean, Hull, Lawrence, and Bainbridge, and Biddle, If Porter beheld his descendant And thou, living veteran, "Old Ironsides," Thou link 'twixt the old and new glory, When the sun look'd over the tree-tops, We found ourselves-Heaven knows how- And over the river came floating And the Stars and Stripes danced up the halliards, Oh! then what a shout from the squadrons, Was bright with the beautiful standard, But three ships were missing; the others Below us the forts of the rebels Lay in the trance of despair; Above us, uncover'd and helpless, New Orleans clouded the air. Again in long lines we went steaming In vain the town clamor'd and struggled, Were resting the will and the power. THE HOUR OF DEATH.-F. Hemans. LEAVES have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh Death! Day is for mortal care, Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, The banquet hath its hour, Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine; There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears-but all are thine. Youth and the opening rose May look like things too glorious for decay, Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh Death! We know when moons shall wane, When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea, When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grainBut who shall teach us when to look for thee? Is it when Spring's first gale Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? Thou art where billows foam, Thou art where music melts upon the air; |