So, all through the night, in the darkness they

grope.

In the wash of the water, and swish of the spray,
Clung the sloop to the chase, as if towed by a rope,
Till the morning gun slipped it, at breaking of day.
Tira la, sang the bugles-a fox stole away!
Stole away; stole away: stole away; stole away:
Tira la, sang the bugles—a fox stole away!

In Wilmington town there's a ringing of bells
As the people go down, to see her come in,
With her flag at the forepeak, as every one tells
Of the old ballad luck of the ship Heir of Lynn.
If you ever meet Josey, or Geordie of Maine,
You will run the chase over in soundings again.
WILL WALLACE HARNEY.

THE ALABAMA.

[Sunk in the harbor of Cherbourg, France, by the United States Steamer Kearsarge, June 19, 1864.]

SHE has gone to the bottom! the wrath of the tide Now breaks in vain insolence o'er her;

No more the rough seas like a queen shall she ride, While the foe flies in terror before her!

Now captive or exiled, or silent in death,

The forms that so bravely did man her;

Her deck is untrod, and the gale's stirring breath Flouts no more the red cross of her banner!

She is down 'neath the waters, but still her bright

name

Is in death, as in life, ever glorious,

And a sceptre all barren the conqueror must claim, Though he boasts the proud title "Victorious."

Her country's lone champion, she shunned not the fight,

Though unequal in strength, bold and fearless; And proved in her fate, though not matchless in might,

In daring at least she was peerless.

No trophy hung high in the foe's hated hall
Shall speak of her final disaster,

Nor tell of the danger that could not appall,
Nor the spirit that nothing could master !

The death-shot has sped-she has grimly gone down,

But left her destroyer no token,

And the mythical wand of her mystic renown,
Though the waters o'erwhelm, is unbroken.

For lo! ere she settles beneath the dark wave
On her enemies' cheeks spreads a pallor,

As another deck summons the swords of the brave
To gild a new name with their valor.

Her phantom will yet haunt the wild roaring breeze, Causing foemen to start and to shudder,

While their commerce still steals like a thief o'er the

seas,

And trembles from bowsprit to rudder.

The spirit that shed on the wave's gleaming crest
The light of a legend romantic

Shall live while a sail flutters over the breast
Of thy far-bounding billows, Atlantic!

And as long as one swift keel the strong surges stems,

Or "poor Jack" loves his song and his story, Shall shine in tradition the valor of Semmes And the brave ship that bore him to glory!

MAURICE BELL.

THE BAY FIGHT.

[Mobile Harbor, Alabama, August 8, 1864.] THREE days through sapphire seas we sailed, The steady Trade blew strong and free, The Northern Light his banners paled, The Ocean Stream our channels wet, We rounded low Canaveral's lee, And passed the isles of emerald set In blue Bahama's turquoise sea. By reef and shoal obscurely mapped, And hauntings of the gray sea-wolf, The palmy Western Key lay lapped In the warm washing of the Gulf, But weary to the hearts of all

The burning glare, the barren reach Of Santa Rosa's withered beach, And Pensacola's ruined wall.

And weary was the long patrol,

The thousand miles of shapeless strand,
From Brazos to San Blas that roll
Their drifting dunes of desert sand.
Yet coastwise as we cruised or lay,
The land-breeze still at nightfall bore,
By beach and fortress-guarded bay,
Sweet odors from the enemy's shore,
Fresh from the forest solitudes,

Unchallenged of his sentry lines,—
The bursting of his cypress buds,
And the warm fragrance of his pines.

Ah, never braver bark and crew,
Nor bolder Flag a foe to dare,
Had left a wake on ocean blue

Since Lion-Heart sailed Trenc-le-mer!

But little gain by that dark ground

Was ours, save, sometime, freer breath

For friend or brother strangely found, 'Scaped from the drear domain of death. And little venture for the bold,

Or laurel for our valiant Chief,
Save some blockaded British thief,
Full fraught with murder in his hold,
Caught unawares at ebb or flood,

Or dull bombardment, day by day,
With fort and earthwork, far away,
Low couched in sullen leagues of mud.
A weary time,—but to the strong
The day at last, as ever, came;
And the volcano, laid so long,

Leaped forth in thunder and in flame!

"Man your starboard battery !"
Kimberly shouted ;—

The ship, with her hearts of oak,
Was going, 'mid roar and smoke,
On to victory!
None of us doubted,
No, not our dying-

Farragut's Flag was flying!

Gaines growled low on our left,

Morgan roared on our right;
Before us, gloomy and fell,
With breath like the fume of hell,
Lay the Dragon of iron shell,
Driven at last to the fight!

Ha, old ship! do they thrill,

The brave two hundred scars You got in the River-Wars? That were leeched with clamorous skill, (Surgery savage and hard,) Splinted with bolt and beam, Probed in scarfing and seam, Rudely linted and tarred With oakum and boiling pitch,

And sutured with splice and hitch,
At the Brooklyn Navy-Yard!
Our lofty spars were down,
To bide the battle's frown
(Wont of old renown)-
But every ship was drest
In her bravest and her best,
As if for a July day;
Sixty flags and three,

As we floated up the bay-
At every peak and mast-head flew
The brave Red, White, and Blue,-
We were eighteen ships that day.
With hawsers strong and taut,
The weaker lashed to port,

On we sailed two by two-
That if either a bolt should feel
Crash through caldron or wheel,
Fin of bronze, or sinew of steel,
Her mate might bear her through.
Forging boldly ahead,
The great Flag-Ship led,
Grandest of sights!

On her lofty mizzen flew

Our Leader's dauntless Blue,

That had waved o'er twenty fights

So we went with the first of the tide,

Slowly, 'mid the roar

Of the rebel guns ashore

And the thunder of each full broadside.

Ah, how poor the prate

Of statute and state

We once held with these fellows!

Here on the flood's pale-green,

Hark how he bellows,

Each bluff old Sea-Lawyer !

Talk to them, Dahlgren,

Parrott, and Sawyer!