In battle and stormy weather;

Yet a little we held our breath,
When, with the hush of death,
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,
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;
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;
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,
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,

The great Lackawanna came down

Full tilt for another blow:
We were forging ahead,

She reversed; but, for all our pains,
Rammed the old Hartford instead,

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, 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; (Rib and plankshear 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.

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!

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.

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
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,

-

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
Boldly his last sea-fight!

Can he strike? By Heaven, 't is true!
Down comes the traitor Blue,
And up goes the captive White!

Up went the White! Ah, then,
The hurrahs that, once and agen,
Rang from three thousand men,

All flushed and savage with fight!
Our dead lay cold and stark,
But our dying, down in the dark,
Answered as best they might,-

Lifting their poor lost arms,

And cheering for God and Right!

Mount Mitchell, N. C.

THE MOUNTAIN BURIAL.

THE REV. Dr. Mitchell, Professor of Chemistry, Mineralogy, and Geology in the University of North Carolina, lost his life in a scientific exploration of the Black Mountain, the highest land east of the Mississippi. When discovered in a stream, where, during the mists of evening, and the darkness of a sudden thunder-storm, he had fallen over a precipice of forty feet, he held in his hand a broken branch of laurel. He was interred on Mount Mitchell, June 16, 1858.

WHERE is he, Mountain-Spirit?

WHE

Dread Mountain-Spirit, say!

That honored Son of Science
Who dared thy shrouded way?
O giant Firs! whose branches
In gloomy grandeur meet,
Did ye his steps imprison
Within your dark retreat?

Ye Mists, and muffled Thunders
That robe yourselves in black,.
Have you his steps deluded
To wander from the track?
Make answer! - Have ye seen him?
For hearts with fear are bowed,
And torches like the wandering stars
Gleam out above the cloud.

Sound, hunter's horn!— Haste, Mountaineers!
Lo, on the yielding fern,

Are these his footprints o'er the ledge? Will he no more return?

He cometh! How? - Like marble,

With dripping locks, and rigid brow,
The sculpture of the dead.

O'er that deep, watery mirror,
With sweetly pensive grace
The graceful Rhododendron leaned
To look upon his face,
While, mid the slippery gorges

Those blushing laurels stand,
Which, faithless, like the broken reed,
Betrayed his grasping hand.

No crystal in its hermit-bed,
No strata of the dales,

No stranger-plant, or noteless vine,

In Carolinian vales,

No shell upon her shore,

No ivy on her wall,

No winged bird, or reptile form,
But he could name them all.

So Nature hath rewarded him
Who loved her sacred lore,
With such a pillow of repose
As man ne'er had before,
A monument that biddeth
Old Egypt's glory hide,