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Whether man's thought can find too lofty steeps

For woman's scaling, care not I to know;

But when he falters by her side, or creeps,

She must not clog her soul with him to go.

Who weds me must at least with equal pace

Sometimes move with me at my being's height:

To follow him to his more glorious place,

His purer atmosphere, were keen delight.

You lure me to the valley: men should call

Up to the mountains, where the air is clear.

Win me and help me climbing, if at all!

Beyond these peaks rich harmonies I hear,

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You got in the River-Wars? That were leeched with clamorous

skill,

(Surgery savage and hard,)
Splinted with bolt and beam,
Probed in scarfing and seam,
Rudely linted and tarred
With oakum and boiling pitch,
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) -
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
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,

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.

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