Her ports were closed; from stem to stern
No sign of life appear'd:

We wonder'd, question'd, strain'd our eyes,
Joked-every thing but fear'd.

She reach'd our range. Our broadside rang;
Our heavy pivots roar'd;

And shot and shell, a fire of hell,
Against her side we pour'd.

God's mercy! from her sloping roof
The iron tempest glanced,

As hail bounds from a cottage-thatch,
And round her leap'd and danced;

Or when against her dusky hull
We struck a fair, full blow,
The mighty, solid iron globes
Were crumbled up like snow.

On, on, with fast increasing speed,
The silent monster came,
Though all our starboard battery
Was one long line of flame.

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,
That in the fiercest blast
So gently folded back the seas,
They hardly felt we pass'd!

Alas! alas! my Cumberland,
That ne'er knew grief before,
To be so gored, to feel so deep
The tusk of that sea-boar!

Once more she backward drew apace;
Once more our side she rent,
Then, in the wantonness of hate,
Her broadside through us sent.

The dead and dying round us lay,
But our foeman lay abeam;
Her open port-holes madden'd us,
We fired with shout and scream.

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,
No hand was idle then:

Two soldiers, but by chance aboard,
Fought on like sailor men.

And when a gun's crew lost a hand,
Some bold marine stepp'd out,
And jerk'd his braided jacket off,
And haul'd the gun about.

Our forward magazine was drown'd,

And

up from the sick-bay

Crawl'd out the wounded, red with blood,
And round us gasping lay;—

Yes, cheering, calling us by name,
Struggling with failing breath
To keep their shipmates at the post
Where glory strove with death.

With decks afloat and powder gone,
The last broadside we gave
From the guns' heated iron lips
Burst out beneath the wave.

So sponges, rammers, and handspikes

As men-of-war's men should
We placed within their proper racks,
And at our quarters stood.

"Up to the spar deck! save yourselves!"
Cried Selfridge. "Up, my men!
God grant that some of us may live
To fight yon ship again!"

We turn'd: we did not like to go;
Yet staying seem'd but vain,

Knee-deep in water; so we left;

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:
"Now, Tenny, let her go!"

It did our sore hearts good to hear
The song our pivot sang,
As rushing on from wave to wave
The whirring bomb-shell sprang.

Brave Randall leap'd upon the gun,

And waved his cap in sport:

"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
Around my senses gush'd.

Then I remember little more;
One look to heaven I gave,
Where, like an angel's wing, I saw
Our spotless ensign wave.

I tried to cheer. I cannot say
Whether I swam or sank;

A blue mist closed around my eyes,
And every thing was blank.

When I awoke, a soldier lad,
All dripping from the sea,
With two great tears upon his cheeks,
Was bending over me.

I tried to speak. He understood
The wish I could not speak.

He turn'd me. There, thank God! the flag
Still flutter'd at the peak!

And there, while thread shall hang to thread,
Oh, let that ensign fly!

The noblest constellation set

Against the northern sky,—

A sign that we who live may claim
The peerage of the brave;

A monument that needs no scroll,
For those beneath the wave.

SHERIDAN'S RIDE.-By Thomas Buchanan Read.

Up from the South at break of day,
Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay,
The affrighted air with a shudder bore,

Like a herald in haste to the chieftain's door,

The terrible grumble and rumble and roar,
Telling the battle was on once more,
And Sheridan twenty miles away.

And wider still those billows of war
Thundered along the horizon's bar.
And louder yet into Winchester rolled
The roar of that red sea uncontrolled,
Making the blood of the listener cold

As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray,
And Sheridan twenty miles away.

But there is a road from Winchester town,

A good, broad highway leading down;

And there, through the flush of the morning's light
A steed, as black as the steeds of night,
Was seen to pass with eagle flight—

As if he knew the terrible need,

He stretched away with his utmost speed;
Hill rose and fell-but his heart was gay,
With Sheridan fifteen miles away.

Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering south,
The dust, like the smoke from the cannon's mouth,
Or the trail of a comet sweeping faster and faster,
Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster;
The heart of the steed and the heart of the master
Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls,
Impatient to be where the battle-field calls;

Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play,
With Sheridan only ten miles away.

Under his spurning feet, the road
Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed,
And the landscape fled away behind
Like an ocean flying before the wind;

And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire,
Swept on, with his wild eye full of fire.
But lo! he is nearing his heart's desire-
He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray,
With Sheridan only five miles away.

The first that the General saw were the groups

Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops;

What was done-what to do-a glance told him both; Then striking his spurs with a terrible oath,

He dashed down the line 'mid a storm of huzzas,

And the wave of retreat checked its course there because

The sight of the master compelled it to pause.

With foam and with dust the black charger was gray;

By the flash of his eye, and his red nostril's play,
He seemed to the whole great army to say:
"I have brought you Sheridan all the way
From Winchester down to save the day."

Hurrah! hurrah! for Sheridan!

Hurrah! hurrah! for horse and man!
And when their statues are placed on high
Under the dome of the Union sky,
The American soldiers' Temple of Fame,
There with the glorious General's name
Be it said in letters both bold and bright:
"Here is the steed that saved the day
By carrying Sheridan into the fight,
From Winchester-twenty miles away!"

COURTIN' IN THE COUNTRY.-By H. Elliot McBride.

ZEKIEL gets the "chores" done,
He feeds the hens and pigs,
Tends to the cows and calves,
Then he gets on his "rigs."
Young tow-heads around him
Shouting to the old 'un,
Saying they'll bet a cent

That Zeke's gettin on his Sunday

go-to-meetins just to go a holdin'.

Zeke marches to the place;

He knocks and hears "Come in!"
They're all glad to see him,

They take his shawl and pin.

Zeke, after looking round,

Squats on the proffered seat;
He hasn't much to say,

Consequently he doesn't say much;

but all the time he keeps a lookin' at his feet.

The old gentleman talks

Of horses and the crops;

And the old lady asks

About his mother's hops.

She also friendly asks

What butter they have churned?

Zekiel gets uneasy,

And he mentally ejaculates;

"Hops, butter and things be derned !"

Old folks keep a talkin',

Crickets keep a buzzin',

Sally looks at Zekiel,

Zekiel keeps a fussin';
Sally thinks it's bedtime,

And Zekiel thinks so too;