Rebellion Record: a Diary of American Events: Poetry and Incidents., Volume 4.
Frank Moore, Ed.

[80] She heeded not, no gun she fired,
     Straight on our bow 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 a space,
     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,
“The pumps, the pumps!” But they who pumped,
     And fought not, wept with grief.

“Oh! keep us but an hour afloat!
     Oh I give us only time
To be the instruments of Heaven
     Against the traitors' 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 somes 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 s<*>
     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 our 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!