Classic Poem

Joy in rebel Plymouth town, in the spring of sixty-four,
When the Albemarle down on the Yankee frigates bore,
With the saucy Stars and Bars at her main;
When she smole the Southfield dead, and the stout Miami quailed,
And the fleet in terror fled when their mighty cannon bailed
Shot and shell on her iron back in vain,
Till she slowly steamed away to her berth at Plymouth pier,
And their quick eyes saw her sway with her great beak out of gear,
And the color of their courage rose again.

All the summer lay the ram,
Like a wounded beast at bay.
While the watchful squadron swam
In the harbor night and day,
Till the broken beak was mended, and the weary vigil ended,
And her time was come again to smite and slay.

Must they die, and die in vain,
Like a flock of shambled sheep?
Then the Yankee grit and brain
Must be dead or gone to sleep,
And our sailors' gallant story of a hundred years of glory
Let us sell for a song, selling cheap!

Cushing, scarce a man in years,
But a sailor thoroughbred,
“With a dozen volunteers
I will sink the ram,” he said.
“At the worst 't is only dying.” And the old commander, sighing,
“'T is to save the fleet and flag—go ahead!”
. . . . . . . .

Bright the rebel beacons blazed
On the river left and right;
Wide awake their sentries gazed
Through the watches of the night;
Sharp their challenge rang, and fiery came the rifle's quick inquiry,
As the little launch swung into the light.

Listening ears afar had heard;
Ready hands to quarters sprung,
The Albemarle awoke and stirred,
And her howitzers gave tongue;
Till the river and the shore echoed back the mighty roar,
When the portals of her hundred-pounders swung.

Will the swordfish brave the whale,
Doubly girt with boom and chain?
Face the shrapnel's iron hail?
Dare the livid leaden rain?
Ah! that shell has done its duty; it has spoiled the Yankee's beauty;
See her turn and fly with half her madmen slain.

High the victor's taunting yell
Rings above the battle roar,
And they bid her mock farewell
As she seeks the farther shore,
Till they see her sudden swinging, crouching for the leap and springing
Back to boom and chain and bloody fray once more.

Now the Southern captain, stirred
By the spirit of his race,
Stops the firing with a word,
Bids them yield, and offers grace.
Cushing, laughing, answers, “No! we are here to fight!” and so
Swings the dread torpedo spar to its place.

Then the great ship shook and reeled,
With a wounded, gaping side,
But her steady cannon pealed
Ere she settled in the tide,
And the Roanoke's dull flood ran full red with Yankee blood,
When the fighting Albemarle sunk and died.

Woe in rebel Plymouth town when the Albemarle fell,
And the saucy flag went down that had floated long and well,
Nevermore from her stricken deck to wave.
For the fallen flag a sigh, for the fallen foe a tear!
Never shall their glory die while we hold our glory dear,
And the hero's laurels live on his grave.
Link their Cooke's with Cushing's name; proudly call them both our own;
Claim their valor and their fame for America alone—
Joyful mother of the bravest of the brave!