God's mercy! from her sloping roof As hail bounds from a cottage-thatch, Or when against her dusky hull On, on, with fast increasing speed, She heeded not; no guns she fired; Straight on our bows she bore ; Through riving plank and crashing frame Her furious way she tore. Alas! our beautiful, keen bow, Alas! alas! my Cumberland, Once more she backward drew apace; The dead and dying round us lay, Her open port-holes madden'd us, We felt our vessel settling fast; We knew our time was brief: "Ho! man the pumps!" But they who work'd, And fought not, wept with grief. "Oh! keep us but an hour afloat! Oh! give us only time To mete unto yon rebel crew The measure of their crime!" From captain down to powder-boy, Two soldiers, but by chance aboard, And when a gun's crew lost a hand, Our forward magazine was drown'd, Crawl'd out the wounded, red with blood, Yes, cheering, calling us by name, With decks afloat and powder gone, From the guns' heated iron lips Burst out beneath the wave. So sponges, rammers, and handspikes— "Up to the spar deck! save yourselves!" We turn'd: we did not like to go; Some swore, some groan'd with pain. We reach'd the deck. There Randall stood: "Another turn, men—so!" Calmly he aim'd his pivot gun: 66 'Now, Tenny, let her go!" It did our sore hearts good to hear Brave Randall leap'd upon the gun, "Well done! well aim'd! I saw that shell Go through an open port!” It was our last, our deadliest shot; The deck was overflown; The poor ship stagger'd, lurch'd to port, And gave a living groan. Down, down, as headlong through the waves, Our gallant vessel rush'd; A thousand gurgling watery sounds Then I remember little more; I tried to cheer. I cannot say A blue mist closed around my eyes, When I awoke, a soldier lad, I tried to speak. He understood He turn'd me. There, thank God! the flag And there, while thread shall hang to thread, The noblest constellation set An Invocation to Loyalty. (EXTRACT FROM MR. MURDOCH'S LECTURES.) "THE OATH," BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ, ESQ. THIS poem was written by Mr. Read, a few days after the news reached Cincinnati of the brutal murder of General Robert McCook, who was shot by guerrillas, while sick and travelling, in Kentucky. It was a master-stroke of artistic effect and poetic inspiration which prompted Mr. Read to seize on the oath of the ghost in Hamlet and apply it to the sons of the men who have fought, bled, and died for our country. Apart from the general merits of the poem, the appeal of the poet to the heroes of the past, and their answer, is intensely affecting, and reflects the highest credit upon one of the first lyrical writers of the age. I cannot refrain from referring to an exhibition of the grand and imposing effect of the recitation of this poem, under circumstances everyway calculated to test its power as an agent in arousing the sensibilities of those who are sometimes rendered, by frequent contact with violence, indifferent to the appeals of poetic imagery and inspired numbers. While on a flying visit to my friend, General A. McDowell McCook, a few days after the battle of Chaplin Hills, in passing through Danville, Kentucky, I made a visit, in company with the general and his staff, to the house of a distinguished Kentucky statesman and loyal gentleman. While partaking of his hospitalities, and surrounded by many leading men of the neighborhood and several military gentlemen, the question of allegiance to the General |