THE BAY FIGHT.

(Mobile Bay, August 5, 1864.)

BY H. H. BROWNELL, U. S. N.

"On the forecastle, Ulf the Red

Watched the lashing of the ships.
'If the Serpent lie so far ahead,
We shall have hard work of it here,'
Said he."

THREE 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,
And passed the isles of emerald set
In blue Bahamas turquoise sea.

By reef and shoal obscurely mapped,
And hauntings of the gray sea-wolf,
The palmy Western Key lay lapped
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.

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, coastwise as we cruised or lay,
The land-breeze still at nightfall bore,

By beach and fortress-guarded bay,

Sweet odors from the enemy's shore,

THE BAY FIGHT.

Fresh from the forest solitudes,
Unchallenged of his sentry lines,
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

Since Lion-Heart sailed Trenc-le-mer! *

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.

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;

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;

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,

Was going, mid roar and smoke,

On to victory!

None of us doubted,

*The flag-ship of Richard I.

233

Ha, old ship! do they thrill,

The brave two hundred scars 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,
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,

THE BAY FIGHT.

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.

Steadily nearing the head,
The great Flag-Ship led, -
Grandest of sights!

On her lofty mizen flew

Our Leader's dauntless Blue,

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.

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,

Each bluff old Sea-Lawyer!

Talk to them Dahlgren,

Parrott, and Sawyer!

On in the whirling shade

Of the cannon's sulphury breath, We drew to the Line of Death That our devilish Foe had laid; Meshed in a horrible net,

And baited villainous well,

Right in our path were set
Three hundred traps of hell!

235

(Ah what ill raven

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!

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,

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.

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,
(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, —
"Go on!"-'t was all he said;

Our helm was put to the starboard,
And the Hartford passed ahead.

Ahead lay the Tennessee,

On our starboard bow he lay, With his mail-clad consorts three, (The rest had run up the Bay),

There he was, belching flame from his bow,