VIII.

O the victory-the victory

Belongs to thee!

God ever keeps the brightest crown for such as thou-
He gives it now to thee!

O young and brave, and early and thrice blest-
Thrice, thrice, thrice blest!

Thy country turns once more to kiss thy youthful brow,
And takes thee—gently—gently to her breast;

And whispers lovingly, "God bless thee-bless thee

now

My darling, thou shalt rest!"

A

BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.

T anchor in Hampton Roads we lay,
On board the Cumberland sloop of war,
And at times from the fortress across the bay
The alarm of drums swept past,

Or a bugle blast

From the camp on shore.

Then far away to the south uprose

A little feather of snow-white smoke, And we knew that the iron ship of our foes Was steadily steering its course

To try the force

Of our ribs of oak.

Down upon us heavily runs,

Silent and sullen, the floating fort,

Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns,
And leaps the terrible death,

With fiery breath,

From each open port.

We are not idle but send her straight
Defiance back in a full broadside!
As hail rebounds from a roof of slate
Rebounds our heavier hail

From each iron scale

Of the monster's hide.

Strike

your flag!" the rebel cries, In his arrogant old plantation strain. "Never!" our gallant Morris replies;

"It is better to sink than to yield!" And the whole air pealed

With the cheers of our men.

Then like a kraken, huge and black

She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp

Down went the Cumberland all awrack,

With a sudden shudder of death,
And the cannon's breath

!

For her dying gasp.

Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay,

Still floated our flag at the mainmast head. Lord, how beautiful was Thy day!

Every waft of the air

Was a whisper of prayer,

Or a dirge for the dead.

Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas,

Ye are at peace in the troubled stream. Ho! brave land! with hearts like these, Thy flag, that is rent in twain, Shall be one again,

"STA

(March 8, 1862.)

BY GEORGE H. BOKER.

TAND to your guns, men!" Morris cried.
Small need to pass the word;

Our men at quarters ranged themselves,
Before the drum was heard.

And then began the sailors' jests:
"What thing is that, I say?"
"A 'long-shore meeting-house adrift
Is standing down the bay!"

A frown came over Morris' face;

The strange, dark craft he knew;

"That is the iron Merrimac,

Manned by a rebel crew.

"So shot your guns, and point them straight;

Before this day goes by,

We 'll try of what her metal 's made."

A cheer was our reply.