LITMIR.BIZ

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one grand surge along the line;

      The spirit that urged them was divine.

      The first works flooded, naught could stay

      The stormers: on! still on!

      Bayonets for Donelson!

      Over the ground that morning lost

      Rolled the blue billows, tempest-tossed,

      Following a hat on the point of a sword.

      Spite shell and round-shot, grape and canister,

      Up they climbed without rail or banister—

      Up the steep hill-sides long and broad,

      Driving the rebel deep within his works.

      'Tis nightfall; not an enemy lurks

      In sight. The chafing men

      Fret for more fight:

      "To-night, to-night let us take the Den"

      But night is treacherous, Grant is wary;

      Of brave blood be a little chary.

      Patience! the Fort is good as won;

      To-morrow, and into Donelson.

      Later and last.

      The Fort is ours.

      A flag came out at early morn

      Bringing surrender. From their towers

      Floats out the banner late their scorn.

      In Dover, hut and house are full

      Of rebels dead or dying.

      The national flag is flying

      From the crammed court-house pinnacle.

      Great boat-loads of our wounded go

      To-day to Nashville. The sleet-winds blow;

      But all is right: the fight is won,

      The winter-fight for Donelson.

      Hurrah!

      The spell of old defeat is broke,

      The Habit of victory begun;

      Grant strikes the war's first sounding stroke

      At Donelson.

      For lists of killed and wounded, see

      The morrow's dispatch: to-day 'tis victory.

      The man who read this to the crowd

      Shouted as the end he gained;

      And though the unflagging tempest rained,

      They answered him aloud.

      And hand grasped hand, and glances met

      In happy triumph; eyes grew wet.

      O, to the punches brewed that night

      Went little water. Windows bright

      Beamed rosy on the sleet without,

      And from the deep street came the frequent shout;

      While some in prayer, as these in glee,

      Blessed heaven for the winter-victory.

      But others were who wakeful laid

      In midnight beds, and early rose,

      And, feverish in the foggy snows,

      Snatched the damp paper—wife and maid.

      The death-list like a river flows

      Down the pale sheet,

      And there the whelming waters meet.

      Ah God! may Time with happy haste

      Bring wail and triumph to a waste,

      And war be done;

      The battle flag-staff fall athwart

      The curs'd ravine, and wither; naught

      Be left of trench or gun;

      The bastion, let it ebb away,

      Washed with the river bed; and Day

      In vain seek Donelson.

The Cumberland.

       Table of Contents

      (March, 1862.)

      Some names there are of telling sound,

      Whose voweled syllables free

      Are pledge that they shall ever live renowned;

      Such seem to be

      A Frigate's name (by present glory spanned)—

      The Cumberland.

      Sounding name as ere was sung,

      Flowing, rolling on the tongue—

      Cumberland! Cumberland!

      She warred and sunk. There's no denying

      That she was ended—quelled;

      And yet her flag above her fate is flying,

      As when it swelled

      Unswallowed by the swallowing sea: so grand—

      The Cumberland.

      Goodly name as ere was sung,

      Roundly rolling on the tongue—

      Cumberland! Cumberland!

      What need to tell how she was fought—

      The sinking flaming gun—

      The gunner leaping out the port—

      Washed back, undone!

      Her dead unconquerably manned

      The Cumberland.

      Noble name as ere was sung,

      Slowly roll it on the tongue—

      Cumberland! Cumberland!

      Long as hearts shall share the flame

      Which burned in that brave crew,

      Her fame shall live—outlive the victor's name;

      For this is due.

      Your flag and flag-staff shall in story stand—

      Cumberland!

      Sounding name as ere was sung,

      Long they'll roll it on the tongue—

      Cumberland! Cumberland!

In the Turret.

       Table of Contents

      (March, 1862.)

      Your honest heart of duty, Worden,

      So helped you that in fame you dwell;

      You bore the first iron battle's burden

      Sealed as in a diving-bell.

      Alcides, groping into haunted hell

      To bring forth King Admetus' bride,

      Braved naught more vaguely direful and untried.

      What poet shall uplift

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