As hail bounds from a cottage-thatch,
And round her leaped 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 passed.
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 foemen lay abeam;
Her open port-holes maddened 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 worked, 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 stepped out,
And jerked his braided jacket off,
And hauled the gun about.

Our forward magazine was drowned,
And up from the sick-bay
Crawled 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 turned: we did not like to go;
Yet staying seemed but vain,
Knee-deep in water; so we left,

Some swore, some groaned with pain.

We reached the deck. There Randall stood: "Another turn, men,—so!"

Calmly he aimed 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 leaped upon the gun,
And waved his cap in sport;

"Well done! well aimed! I saw that shell
Go through an open port!"

It was our last, our deadliest shot;
The deck was overflown;

The poor ship staggered, lurched to port,

And gave a living groan.

Down, down, as headlong through the waves,
Our gallant vessel rushed,

A thousand gurgling watery sounds
Around my senses gushed.

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 everything 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 turned me. There, thank God! the flag
Still fluttered 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.

THE BULL-FIGHT OF GAZUL

-FROM THE SPANISH.

King Almanzor of Granada, he hath bid the trumpet

sound;

He hath summoned all the Moorish lords from the hills and plains around;

From Vega and Sierra, from Betis and Xenil, They have come with helm and cuirass of gold and twisted steel.

'Tis the holy Baptist's feast they hold in royalty and state,

And they have closed the spacious lists, beside the Alhambra's gate;

In gowns of black with silver laced, within the tented ring,

Eight Moors to fight the bull are placed in presence of the king.

Eight Moorish lords, of valor tried, with stalwart arm and true,

The onset of the beasts abide, as they come rushing through.

The deeds they've done, the spoils they've won, fill all with hope and trust;

Yet, ere high in heaven appears the sun, they all have bit the dust.

Then sounds the trumpet clearly, then clangs the loud tambour:

Make room, make room for Gazul! Throw wide, throw wide the door!

Blow, blow the trumpet clearer still! More loudly strike the drum!

The alcayde of Algava to fight the bull doth come.

And first before the king he passed, with reverence stooping low;

And next he bowed him to the queen, and the Infantas all a-row;