Part 5 — CHAPTER V

There is blood on thy desolate shore, Thou island of plunder and slaves! Thy billows are purpled with gore, And murder has crimsoned thy waves; The vengeance of nations will come, And wrath shall be rained on thy head, And in terror thy voice shall be dumb, When they ask for their brothers who bled. Thy hand was not stirred, when their life-blood was spilt; And therefore that hand must partake in the guilt. Thou art guilty or weak,—and the rod Should be wrenched from thy palsied hand; By the pirate thy green fields are trod, And his steps have polluted thy land; Unmoved is thy heart and thine eye, When our dear ones are tortured and slain; But their blood with a terrible cry, Calls on vengeance, and calls not in vain; If Europe regard not—our land shall awake, And thy walls and thy turrets shall tremble and shake. The voice of a world shall be heard, And thy faith shall be tried by the call; And that terrible voice shall be feared, And obeyed—or the proud one shall fall. Enough of our life has been shed, In watching and fighting for thee; If thy foot linger still—on thy head The guilt and the vengeance shall be: We have sworn that the spirit of Allen shall lead, And our wrath shall not rest, till we finish the deed. James Gates Percival.

Freedom called them—up they rose, Grasped their swords and showered blows On the heads of Freedom's foes— And Freedom's foes alone. Fate decreed that they should die; Pitying angels breathed a sigh; Freedom wildly wept on high, For the gallant Fifty-one! There they stood in proud array; None for mercy there would pray; None would coward looks betray— All stood forth with fearless eye, Showing by their dauntless air, What their noble souls could dare; Showing to the tyrants there, How Freedom's sons could die. None there strove their fate to shun— Gallant band of Fifty-one! Then a voice the stillness broke: 'Twas their gallant leader spoke, Scorning to receive Death's stroke, Kneeling humbly on the sod! Gazing calmly on the dead, Whose life-blood had just been shed, Proudly then the words he said, "Americans kneel but to God!" Perished thus Kentucky's son— Leader of the Fifty-one. Rejoice! sons of Thermopylæ! Kindred spirits join with thee, Who fell in fight for Liberty, For Freedom's sacred name. Future days their deeds shall tell, How they nobly fought and fell, Youthful bosoms proudly swell At mention of their fame— Rays of light from Freedom's sun, Gallant band of Fifty-one! Honor's rays will ever shed Glory 'round their hallowed bed. Though their hearts are cold and dead, Though their sands of life have run, Still their names revered will be, Among the noble and the free— Glorious sons of Liberty; Gallant band of Fifty-one! Henry Lynden Flash.

Is it naught? Is it naught That the South-wind brings her wail to our shore, That the spoilers compass our desolate sister? Is it naught? Must we say to her, "Strive no more," With the lips wherewith we loved her and kissed her? With the mocking lips wherewith we said, "Thou art the dearest and fairest to us Of all the daughters the sea hath bred, Of all green-girdled isles that woo us!" Is it naught? Must ye wait? Must ye wait, Till they ravage her gardens of orange and palm, Till her heart is dust, till her strength is water? Must ye see them trample her, and be calm As priests when a virgin is led to slaughter? Shall they smite the marvel of all lands,— The nation's longing, the Earth's completeness,— On her red mouth dropping myrrh, her hands Filled with fruitage and spice and sweetness? Must ye wait? In the day, in the night, In the burning day, in the dolorous night, Her sun-browned cheeks are stained with weeping. Her watch-fires beacon the misty height:— Why are her friends and lovers sleeping? "Ye, at whose ear the flatterer bends, Who were my kindred before all others,— Hath he set your hearts afar, my friends? Hath he made ye alien, my brothers, Day and night?" Hear ye not? Hear ye not From the hollow sea the sound of her voice; The passionate far-off tone which sayeth: "Alas, my brothers! alas, what choice,— The lust that shameth, the sword that slayeth? They bind me! they rend my delicate locks; They shred the beautiful robes I won me! My round limbs bleed on the mountain rocks: Save me, ere they have quite undone me!" Hear ye not? Speak at last! Speak at last! In the might of your strength, in the strength of your right, Speak out at last to the treacherous spoiler! Say: "Will ye harry her in our sight? Ye shall not trample her down, nor soil her! Loose her bonds! let her rise in her loveliness,— Our virginal sister; or, if ye shame her, Dark Amnon shall rue for her sore distress, And her sure revenge shall be that of Tamar!" Speak at last! Edmund Clarence Stedman.

Ay, let it rest! And give us peace. 'Tis but another blot On Freedom's fustian flag, and gold Will gild the unclean spot. Yes, fold the hands, and bear the wrong As Christians over-meek, And wipe away the bloody stain, And turn the other cheek. What boots the loss of freemen's blood Beside imperilled gold? Is honor more than merchandise? And cannot pride be sold? Let Cuba groan, let patriots fall; Americans may die; Our flag may droop in foul disgrace, But "Peace!" be still our cry. Ay, give us peace! And give us truth To nature, to resign The counterfeit which Freedom wears Upon her banner fine. Remove the Stars,—they light our shame; But keep the Stripes of gore And craven White, to tell the wrong A prudent nation bore. James Jeffrey Roche.

Isle of a summer sea, Fragrant with Eden's flowers, God meant thee to be free, And wills thee to be ours! The blood of generous hearts Has freely drenched thy soil; That blood but strength imparts, Which tyrants cannot foil! Within thy fair retreat, 'Mid victory and flame, Thy sons shall yet repeat Huzzas in Freedom's name! Yet, where his ashes rest, Whose eye revealed a world, From towers and mountain crest, Our flag shall be unfurled! In truth, it is but just, That Freedom's hand should hold, Confided to her trust, The key to lands of gold! Harvey Rice.

A voice went over the waters— A stormy edge of the sea— Fairest of Freedom's daughters, Have you no help for me? Do you not hear the rusty chain Clanking about my feet? Have you not seen my children slain, Whether in cell or street? Oh, if you were sad as I, And I as you were strong, You would not have to call or cry— You would not suffer long! "Patience?"—have I not learned it, Under the crushing years? Freedom—have I not earned it, Toiling with blood and tears? "Not of you?"—my banners wave Not on Egyptian shore, Or by Armenia's mammoth grave— But at your very door! Oh, if you were needy as I, And I as you were strong, You should not suffer, bleed, and die, Under the hoofs of wrong! Is it that you have never Felt the oppressor's hand, Fighting, with fond endeavor, To cling to your own sweet land? Were you not half dismayed, There in the century's night, Till to your view a sister's aid Came, like a flash of light? Oh, what gift could ever be grand Enough to pay the debt, If out of the starry Western land, Should come my Lafayette! Will Carleton.

Comes a cry from Cuban water— From the warm, dusk Antilles— From the lost Atlanta's daughter, Drowned in blood as drowned in seas; Comes a cry of purpled anguish— See her struggles, hear her cries! Shall she live, or shall she languish? Shall she sink, or shall she rise? She shall rise, by all that's holy! She shall live and she shall last; Rise as we, when crushed and lowly, From the blackness of the past. Bid her strike! Lo, it is written Blood for blood and life for life. Bid her smite, as she is smitten; Stars and stripes were born of strife. Once we flashed her lights of freedom, Lights that dazzled her dark eyes Till she could but yearning heed them, Reach her hands and try to rise. Then they stabbed her, choked her, drowned her Till we scarce could hear a note. Ah! these rusting chains that bound her! Oh! these robbers at her throat! And the kind who forged these fetters? Ask five hundred years for news. Stake and thumbscrew for their betters! Inquisitions! Banished Jews! Chains and slavery! What reminder Of one red man in that land? Why, these very chains that bind her Bound Columbus, foot and hand! Shall she rise as rose Columbus, From his chains, from shame and wrong— Rise as Morning, matchless, wondrous— Rise as some rich morning song— Rise a ringing song and story, Valor, Love personified? Stars and stripes espouse her glory, Love and Liberty allied. Joaquin Miller.

Untrammelled Giant of the West, With all of Nature's gifts endowed, With all of Heaven's mercies blessed, Nor of thy power unduly proud— Peerless in courage, force, and skill, And godlike in thy strength of will,— Before thy feet the ways divide: One path leads up to heights sublime; The other downward slopes, where bide The refuse and the wrecks of Time. Choose then, nor falter at the start, O choose the nobler path and part! Be thou the guardian of the weak, Of the unfriended, thou the friend; No guerdon for thy valor seek, No end beyond the avowèd end. Wouldst thou thy godlike power preserve, Be godlike in the will to serve! Joseph B. Gilder.

Not in the dire, ensanguined front of war, Conquered or conqueror, 'Mid the dread battle-peal, did they go down To the still under-seas, with fair Renown To weave for them the hero-martyr's crown. They struck no blow 'Gainst an embattled foe; With valiant-hearted Saxon hardihood They stood not as the Essex sailors stood, So sore bestead in that far Chilian bay; Yet no less faithful they, These men who, in a passing of the breath, Were hurtled upon death. No warning the salt-scented sea-wind bore, No presage whispered from the Cuban shore Of the appalling fate That in the tropic night-time lay in wait To bear them whence they shall return no more. Some lapsed from dreams of home and love's clear star Into a realm where dreams eternal are; And some into a world of wave and flame Wherethrough they came To living agony that no words can name. Tears for them all, And the low-tunèd dirge funereal! Their place is now With those who wear, green-set about the brow, The deathless immortelles,— The heroes torn and scarred Whose blood made red the barren ocean dells, Fighting with him the gallant Ranger bore, Daring to do what none had dared before, To wave the New World banner, freedom-starred, At England's very door! Yea, with such noble ones their names shall stand As those who heard the dying Lawrence speak His burning words upon the Chesapeake, And grappled in the hopeless hand-to-hand; With those who fell on Erie and Champlain Beneath the pouring, pitiless battle-rain: With such as these, our lost men of the Maine! What though they faced no storm of iron hail That freedom and the right might still prevail? The path of duty it was theirs to tread To death's dark vale through ways of travail led, And they are ours—our dead! If it be true that each loss holds a gain, It must be ours through saddened eyes to see From out this tragic holocaust of pain The whole land bound in closer amity! Clinton Scollard.

Thus spake the Lord: Because ye have not heard, Because ye have given no heed To my people in their need, Because the oppressed cried From the dust where he died, And ye turned your face away From his cry in that day, Because ye have bought and sold That which is above gold, Because your brother is slain While ye get you drunk with gain, (Behold, these are my people, I have brought them to birth, On whom the mighty have trod, The kings of the earth, Saith the Lord God!) Because ye have fawned and bowed down Lest the spoiler frown, And the wrongs that the spoiled have borne Ye have held in scorn, Therefore with rending and flame I have marred and smitten you, Therefore I have given you to shame, That the nations shall spit on you. Therefore my Angel of Death Hath stretched out his hand on you, Therefore I speak in my wrath, Laying command on you; (Once have I bared my sword, And the kings of the earth gave a cry; Twice have I bared my sword, That the kings of the earth should die; Thrice shall I bare my sword, And ye shall know my name, that it is I!) Ye who held peace less than right When a king laid a pitiful tax on you, Hold not your hand from the fight When freedom cries under the axe on you! (I who called France to you, call you to Cuba in turn! Repay—lest I cast you adrift and you perish astern!) Ye who made war that your ships Should lay to at the beck of no nation, Make war now on Murder, that slips The leash of her hounds of damnation! Ye who remembered the Alamo, Remember the Maine! Richard Hovey.

On every schoolhouse, ship, and staff From 'Frisco clear to Marblehead, Let droop the starry banner now, In sorrow for our sailors dead. Half-mast! Half-mast! o'er all the land; The verdict wait; your wrath restrain; Half-mast for all that gallant band— The sailors of the Maine! Not till a treachery is proved His sword the patriot soldier draws; War is the last alternative— Be patient till ye know the cause. Meanwhile—Half-mast o'er all the land! The verdict wait; your wrath restrain; Half-mast! for all that gallant band— The martyrs of the Maine! Lloyd Mifflin.

"Read out the names!" and Burke sat back, And Kelly drooped his head, While Shea—they call him Scholar Jack— Went down the list of the dead. Officers, seamen, gunners, marines, The crews of the gig and yawl, The bearded man and the lad in his teens, Carpenters, coal passers—all. Then, knocking the ashes from out his pipe, Said Burke in an offhand way: "We're all in that dead man's list by Cripe! Kelly and Burke and Shea." "Well, here's to the Maine, and I'm sorry for Spain," Said Kelly and Burke and Shea. "Wherever there's Kellys there's trouble," said Burke. "Wherever fighting's the game, Or a spice of danger in grown man's work." Said Kelly, "you'll find my name." "And do we fall short," said Burke, getting mad, "When it's touch and go for life?" Said Shea, "It's thirty-odd years, bedad, Since I charged to drum and fife Up Marye's Heights, and my old canteen Stopped a rebel ball on its way; There were blossoms of blood on our sprigs of green— Kelly and Burke and Shea— And the dead didn't brag." "Well, here's to the flag!" Said Kelly and Burke and Shea. "I wish 'twas in Ireland, for there's the place," Said Burke, "that we'd die by right, In the cradle of our soldier race, After one good stand-up fight. My grandfather fell on Vinegar Hill, And fighting was not his trade; But his rusty pike's in the cabin still, With Hessian blood on the blade." "Aye, aye," said Kelly, "the pikes were great When the word was 'clear the way!' We were thick on the roll in ninety-eight— Kelly and Burke and Shea." "Well, here's to the pike and the sword and the like!" Said Kelly and Burke and Shea. And Shea, the scholar, with rising joy, Said, "We were at Ramillies; We left our bones at Fontenoy And up in the Pyrenees; Before Dunkirk, on Landen's plain, Cremona, Lille, and Ghent; We're all over Austria, France, and Spain, Wherever they pitched a tent. We've died for England from Waterloo To Egypt and Dargai; And still there's enough for a corps or crew, Kelly and Burke and Shea." "Well, here's to good honest fighting blood!" Said Kelly and Burke and Shea. "Oh, the fighting races don't die out, If they seldom die in bed, For love is first in their hearts, no doubt," Said Burke; then Kelly said: "When Michael, the Irish Archangel, stands, The angel with the sword, And the battle-dead from a hundred lands Are ranged in one big horde, Our line, that for Gabriel's trumpet waits, Will stretch three deep that day, From Jehoshaphat to the Golden Gates— Kelly and Burke and Shea." "Well, here's thank God for the race and the sod!" Said Kelly and Burke and Shea. Joseph I. C. Clarke.

O God of Battles, who art still The God of Love, the God of Rest, Subdue thy people's fiery will, And quell the passions in their breast! Before we bathe our hands in blood We lift them to thy Holy Rood. The waiting nations hold their breath To catch the dreadful battle-cry; And in the silence as of death The fateful hours go softly by. Oh, hear thy people where they pray, And shrive our souls before the fray! Before the sun of peace shall set, We kneel apart a solemn while; Pity the eyes with sorrow wet, But pity most the lips that smile. The night comes fast; we hear afar The baying of the wolves of war. Not lightly, oh, not lightly, Lord, Let this our awful task begin; Speak from thy throne a warning word Above the angry factions' din. If this be thy Most Holy will, Be with us still,—be with us still! Danske Dandridge. Good Friday, 1898.

Iberian! palter no more! By thine hands, thine alone, they were slain! Oh, 'twas a deed in the dark— Yet mark! We will show you a way—only one—by which ye may blot out the stain! Build them a monument whom to death-sleep, in their sleep, ye betrayed! Proud and stern let it be— Cuba free! So, only, the stain shall be razed—so, only, the great debt be paid! Edith M. Thomas.

And they have thrust our shattered dead away in foreign graves, Exiled forever from the port the homesick sailor craves! They trusted once in Spain, They're trusting her again! And with the holy care of our own sacred slain! No, no, the Stripes and Stars Must wave above our tars. Bring them home! On a thousand hills the darling dead of all our battles lie, In nooks of peace, with flowers and flags, but now they seem to cry From out their bivouac: "Here every good man Jack Belongs. Nowhere but here—with us. So bring them back." And on the Cuban gales, A ghostly rumor wails, "Bring us home!" Poltroon, the people that neglects to guard the bones, the dust, The reverenced relics its warriors have bequeathed in trust! But heroes, too, were these Who sentinell'd the seas And gave their lives, to shelter us in careless ease. Shall we desert them, slain, And proffer them to Spain As alien mendicants,—these martyrs of our Maine? No! Bring them home! Rupert Hughes.

El Emplazado, the Summoned, the Doomed One, Spain whom the nations denounce and abhor, Robe thy dismay in the black sanbenito, Come to the frowning tribunal of war. Curst were thy minions, their roster and scutcheon, Alvas, Alfonsos, Archarchons of hate; Pillared on bigotry, pride, and extortion, Topples to ruin thy mansion of state. Violence, Cruelty, Intrigue, and Treason. These the false courtiers who flattered thy throne; Empires, thy sisters, forbode thee disaster, Even thy children their mother disown. Suppliant Cuba, thy daughter forsaken, Famished and bleeding and buffeted sore, Ghastly from gashes and stabs of thy rancor, Binds up her wounds at an alien door. Courts and corregidors erst at thy bidding Banished or butchered Moresco and Jew; Ghosts from all Christendom, shades of the Martyrs Flock from the sepulchre thee to pursue. Wrath of retributive Justice o'ertakes thee! Brand of time's malison blisters thy brow: Armed cabelleros and crowned kings of Bourbon, All are unable to succor thee now. El Emplazado, the Summoned, the Doomed One! God's Inquisition condemns thee to-day! Earth-shaking cannon-bolts thunder thy sentence,— Heaven reëchoes the auto-da-fé. William Henry Venable.

When the vengeance wakes, when the battle breaks, And the ships sweep out to sea; When the foe is neared, when the decks are cleared, And the colors floating free; When the squadrons meet, when it's fleet to fleet And front to front with Spain, From ship to ship, from lip to lip, Pass on the quick refrain, "Remember, remember the Maine!" When the flag shall sign, "Advance in line; Train ships on an even keel;" When the guns shall flash and the shot shall crash And bound on the ringing steel; When the rattling blasts from the armored masts Are hurling their deadliest rain, Let their voices loud, through the blinding cloud, Cry ever the fierce refrain, "Remember, remember the Maine!" God's sky and sea in that storm shall be Fate's chaos of smoke and flame, But across that hell every shot shall tell, Not a gun can miss its aim; Not a blow shall fail on the crumbling mail, And the waves that engulf the slain Shall sweep the decks of the blackened wrecks, With the thundering, dread refrain, "Remember, remember the Maine!" Robert Burns Wilson.

America! dear brother land! While yet the shotted guns are mute, Accept a brotherly salute, A hearty grip of England's hand. To-morrow, when the sulphurous glow Of war shall dim the stars above, Be sure the star of England's love Is over you, come weal or woe. Go forth in hope! Go forth in might! To all your nobler self be true, That coming times may see in you The vanguard of the hosts of light. Though wrathful justice load and train Your guns, be every breach they make A gateway pierced for mercy's sake That peace may enter in and reign. Then, should the hosts of darkness band Against you, lowering thunderously, Flash the word "Brother" o'er the sea, And England at your side shall stand, Exulting! For, though dark the night And sinister with scud and rack, The hour that brings us back to back But harbingers the larger light. London Chronicle, April 22, 1898.

The loud drums are rolling, the mad trumpets blow! To battle! the war is begun and we go To humble the pride of an arrogant foe! The ensign and standard which wave for the Crown Of Castile and Aragon—trample them down! Granada and Leon and haughty Navarre Shall lower their banner to Cuba's lone star! Now under Old Glory, the Blue and the Gray United march shoulder to shoulder away, To meet the Hidalgos in furious fray. With musket and haversack ready are we To tramp the globe over, to sweep every sea, From isles of dead Philip to Florida's Key. We think of the Maine and our hot bosoms swell With rage of love's sorrow, which vengeance must quell, And then we are ready to storm gates of Hell. Our flag streams aloft by the tempest unfurled! We strike for a Continent;—nay, for the World! Mene, Tekel, Upharsin! the thunder is hurled! The ensign and standard which wave for the Crown Of Castile and Aragon—trample them down! Granada and Leon and haughty Navarre Shall lower their banner to Cuba's lone star! William Henry Venable.

The war-path is true and straight, It knoweth no left or right; Why ponder and wonder and vacillate? The way to fight is to fight. The officer of the deck Had climbed to a perch aloft, And he leaned far out and he craned his neck, And his tones were gentle and soft: "I see," he whispered, "off there to port, Through the night shade's lesser black, The darker blur of the outer fort, Preparing for the attack." They signalled it so, and sharp and short The answer was signalled back: "Keep on." Again from the upper air Came the quiet voice of the guide: "The admiral's flagship's over there, Two miles on the starboard side. It's a long, long way for the best of eyes, But I know her by moon or sun, I know by her lines and I know her size— And there goes her warning gun." "That boat will make a most excellent prize," Said the admiral, "when we've won. Keep on." The whispering came again: "I think by the hints and signs Appearing ahead of us now and then That we're getting among their mines. Ten fathom in front, as the search-lights show, I fancy that I can detect The line of their outermost works—Ah, no! It is nearer than I'd suspect." The message was sent to the admiral so, And he answered to this effect: "Keep on." The haze of the dawning day Slid into the shades of night, And he called: "Off there in the upper bay, They're lining their ships for a fight. I think they are training on us—" No more He said, for the dawn was lit By the blaze of a gun from the neighboring shore, And he fell to the deck, hard hit. They signalled: "The first man struck." As before The admiral answered it: "Keep on." The sun came over the hills As wishing a world-wide weal. And the guns were fired with the aim that kills, And steel pierced the heart of steel. And the line of shore was the fringe of hell, And the centre of hell was the sea, And the woe was the woe no tongue may tell, And no eye view tearlessly, And over that crater of bomb and shell The signal continued to be: "Keep on." O Lawrence, whose passing cry Grows ever the more sublime, And thou, O Nile King, whose words shall die When we learn of the death of time, We send you the third of a glorious three; We send you a battle shout That echoes up from the blood-thick sea And up from the wreck and rout And down from the staff on the high cross-tree Where the flag is signalling out: "Keep on." The war-path is true and straight, It knoweth no left or right; Mars loves not the man who would deviate,— For the way to fight is to fight.

'Twas the very verge of May When the bold Olympia led Into Bocagrande Bay Dewey's squadron, dark and dread,— Creeping past Corregidor, Guardian of Manila's shore. Do they sleep who wait the fray? Is the moon so dazzling bright That our cruisers' battle-gray Melts into the misty light?... Ah! the red flash and the roar! Wakes at last Corregidor! All too late their screaming shell Tears the silence with its track; This is but the gate of hell, We've no leisure to turn back. Answer, Concord!—then once more Slumber on, Corregidor! And as, like a slowing tide, Onward still the vessels creep, Dewey, watching, falcon-eyed, Orders,—"Let the gunners sleep; For we meet a foe at four Fiercer than Corregidor." Well they slept, for well they knew What the morrow taught us all,— He was wise (as well as true) Thus upon the foe to fall. Long shall Spain the day deplore Dewey ran Corregidor. May is dancing into light As the Spanish Admiral From a dream of phantom fight Wakens at his sentry's call. Shall he leave Cavité's lee, Hunt the Yankee fleet at sea? O Montojo, to thy deck, That to-day shall float its last! Quick! To quarters! Yonder speck Grows a hull of portent vast. Hither, toward Cavité's lee Comes the Yankee hunting thee! Not for fear of hidden mine Halts our doughty Commodore. He, of old heroic line, Follows Farragut once more, Hazards all on victory, Here within Cavité's lee. If he loses, all is gone; He will win because he must. And the shafts of yonder dawn Are not quicker than his thrust. Soon, Montojo, he shall be With thee in Cavité's lee. Now, Manila, to the fray! Show the hated Yankee host This is not a holiday,— Spanish blood is more than boast. Fleet and mine and battery, Crush him in Cavité's lee! Lo, hell's geysers at our fore Pierce the plotted path—in vain, Nerving every man the more With the memory of the Maine! Now at last our guns are free Here within Cavité's lee. "Gridley," says the Commodore, "You may fire when ready." Then Long and loud, like lions' roar When a rival dares the den, Breaks the awful cannonry Full across Cavité's lee. Who shall tell the daring tale Of our Thunderbolt's attack, Finding, when the chart should fail, By the lead his dubious track, Five ships following faithfully Five times o'er Cavité's lee; Of our gunners' deadly aim; Of the gallant foe and brave Who, unconquered, faced with flame, Seek the mercy of the wave,— Choosing honor in the sea Underneath Cavité's lee? Let the meed the victors gain Be the measure of their task. Less of flinching, stouter strain, Fiercer combat—who could ask? And "surrender,"—'twas a word That Cavité ne'er had heard. Noon,—the woful work is done! Not a Spanish ship remains; But, of their eleven, none Ever was so truly Spain's! Which is prouder, they or we, Thinking of Cavité's lee?

But remember, when we've ceased Giving praise and reckoning odds, Man shares courage with the beast, Wisdom cometh from the gods. Who would win, on land or wave, Must be wise as well as brave. Robert Underwood Johnson.

Glistering high in the midnight sky the starry rockets soar To crown the height so soon to be uncrowned, Corregidor; And moaning into the middle night resounds the answering shock From Fraile's island battery within the living rock; Like Farragut before him, so Dewey down the bay, Past fort and mine, in single line, holds on toward Cavité. When the earth was new a raven flew o'er the sea on a perilous quest, By his broad black pinions buoyed up as he sought him a spot to rest; So to-day from British China sweeps our Commodore 'mid the cheers Of England's dauntless ships of steel, and into the night he steers, With never a home but the furrowy foam and never a place for ease Save the place he'll win by the dint and din of his long, lean batteries. A misty dawn on the May-day shone, yet the enemy sees afar On our ships-of-war great flags flung out as bright as the morning star; Then the cannon of Spain crash over the main and their splendor flecks the ports As the crackling thunder rolls along the frowning fleet and forts; But the Olympia in her majesty leads up the broadening bay And behind her come gaunt ships and dumb toward crested Cavité. All pearl and rose the dawnlight glows, and ruddy and gray the gloom Of battle over their squadron sinks as we sweep like a vast simoom; When our broadsides flash and ring at last—in a hoarsening, staggering crush On the arsenal and fleet in wrath our lurid lightnings rush. Malate knows us, Cavité, Cañacoa crazed with hate; But Corregidor shall speak no more, El Fraile fears his fate. Montojo fights as fought the knights by the Cid Campeador; He leaves his flagship all afire, the Cuba takes him o'er The Don Antonio roars and fumes, the Austria lights and lifts; From Sangley to Manila Mole the battle vapor drifts; But the Queen Christine in one great blast dies as becomes her name, Her funeral shroud a pillar of cloud all filagreed with flame. From peak to peak our quick flags speak, the rattling chorus ends; And cheer on cheer rolls over the sea at the word the signal sends. From Commodore to powder-boy, from bridge to stoker's den, No battle rips have found our ships, nor wounds nor death our men. We cheer and rest, we rest and cheer; and ever above the tides The flag that knows no conquering foes in newer glory rides. When the reek of war is rolled afar by the breezes down the bay We turn our deadly guns again on the walls of Cavité. The Spaniard dreamed of victory—his final hope is flown As winged destruction up and down our batteries have strown— In horrid havoc, red and black, the storm throbs on amain Till in the glare of carnage there fade all the flags of Spain. In old Madrid sad eyes are hid for an empire sore bestead: Manila's mad with misery, Havana sick with dread, As the great bells toll each gallant soul Castile shall see no more, Toll Fraile's rock a thing for sport, toll lost Corregidor— Spain's fortresses are fluttering with banners blanched and pale; Her admiralty in agony lies shattered, steam and sail. And the home we sought was cheaply bought, for no mother, wife, nor maid From Maine to Loma Point bewails the lad for whom she prayed; Now everywhere, from Florida to the blue Vancouver Straits, The flag we've flown abroad is thrown, and a word of cheer awaits. The ships and men that never failed the nation from her birth Have done again all ships and men may do upon this earth. Glistering high in the noontide sky the starry banners soar To crown anew the height so soon uncrowned, Corregidor. They bring the promise of the free to Philip's jewelled isles, And hearts oppressed thrill hard with hope whene'er that promise smiles; For the spirit of Old Ironsides broods o'er that tropic day And the wildfire lights as Dewey fights on the broad Manila Bay. Wallace Rice.

Aye, lads, aye, we fought 'em, And we sent 'em to the bottom, And you'll say that I'm a-talkin' like a silly; I hear your cheers and jokes, But, lads, them's human folks What is soakin' in the water off Manilly. Aye, lads, and when we shot It's just as like as not We hit some mother's heart in old Granady. She didn't sink no Maine, 'Way over there in Spain, But she won't never see her laddy's body. I kin see a black-eyed gal, Somethin' like my little Sal, What is cryin' out her eyes in old Sevilly; There's a widow in Madrid With a pore little kid, And his daddy has went down off Manilly. Aye, lads, aye, we fought 'em, And we sent 'em to the bottom, And I hopes you won't be thinkin' I'm a booby, But that little black-eyed gal, What reminds me so of Sal, She didn't never do no harm to Cuby. And if instead of Sanchy, It had been "the hated Yankee," Which you know, my lads, is me and Jack, and Billy, You know who would be cryin' For us fellers, what was dyin' And a-soakin' in the water off Manilly. Edmund Vance Cooke.

From keel to fighting top, I love Our Asiatic fleet, I love our officers and crews Who'd rather fight than eat. I love the breakfast ordered up When enemies ran short, But most I love our chaplain With his head out of the port. Now, a naval chaplain cannot charge As chaplains can on land, With his Bible in his pocket, His revolver in his hand, He must wait and help the wounded, No danger must he court; So our chaplain helped the wounded With his head out of the port. Beneath his red and yellow, At bay the Spaniard stood Till the yellow rose in fire And the crimson sank in blood. And till the last fouled rifle Sped its impotent retort, Our chaplain watched the Spaniard With his head out of the port. Then here's our admiral on the bridge Above the bursting shell; And here's our sailors who went in For victory or hell, And here's the ships and here's the guns, That silenced fleet and fort; But don't forget our chaplain With his head out of the port. Arthur Hale. May 1, 1898.

Your threats how vain, Corregidor; Your rampired batteries, feared no more; Your frowning guard at Manila gate,— When our Captain went before! Lights out. Into the unknown gloom From the windy, glimmering, wide sea-room Challenging fate in that dark strait We dared the hidden doom. But the death in the deep awoke not then; Mine and torpedo they spoke not then; From the heights that loomed on our passing line The thunders broke not then. Safe through the perilous dark we sped, Quiet each ship as the quiet dead, Till the guns of El Fraile roared—too late, And the steel prows forged ahead. Mute each ship as the mute-mouth grave, A ghost leviathan cleaving the wave; But deep in its heart the great fires throb, The travailing engines rave. The ponderous pistons urge like fate, The red-throat furnaces roar elate, And the sweating stokers stagger and swoon In a heat more fierce than hate. So through the dark we stole our way Past the grim warders and into the bay, Past Kalibuyo, and past Salinas,— And came at the break of day Where strong Cavité stood to oppose,— Where, from a sheen of silver and rose, A thronging of masts, a soaring of towers, The beautiful city arose. How fine and fair! But the shining air With a thousand shattered thunders there Flapped and reeled. For the fighting foe— We had caught him in his lair. Surprised, unready, his proud ships lay Idly at anchor in Bakor Bay:— Unready, surprised, but proudly bold, Which was ever the Spaniard's way. Then soon on his pride the dread doom fell, Red doom,—for the ruin of shot and shell Lit every vomiting, bursting hulk With a crimson reek of hell. But to the brave though beaten, hail! All hail to them that dare and fail! To the dauntless boat that charged our fleet And sank in the iron hail! * * * * * Manila Bay! Manila Bay! How proud the song on our lips to-day! A brave old song of the true and strong, And the will that has its way; Of the blood that told in the days of Drake When the fight was good for the fighting's sake! For the blood that fathered Farragut Is the blood that fathered Blake; And the pride of the blood will not be undone While war's in the world and a fight to be won. For the master now, as the master of old, Is "the man behind the gun." The dominant blood that daunts the foe, That laughs at odds, and leaps to the blow,— It is Dewey's glory to-day, as Nelson's A hundred years ago! Charles George Douglas Roberts.

By Cavité on the bay 'Twas the Spanish squadron lay; And the red dawn was creeping O'er the city that lay sleeping To the east, like a bride, in the May. There was peace at Manila, In the May morn at Manila,— When ho, the Spanish admiral Awoke to find our line Had passed by gray Corregidor, Had laughed at shoal and mine, And flung to the sky its banners With "Remember" for the sign! With the ships of Spain before In the shelter of the shore, And the forts on the right, They drew forward to the fight, And the first was the gallant Commodore In the bay of Manila, In the doomed bay of Manila— With succor half the world away, No port beneath that sky, With nothing but their ships and guns And Yankee pluck to try, They had left retreat behind them, They had come to win or die! * * * * * For we spoke at Manila, We said it at Manila, Oh be ye brave, or be ye strong, Ye build your ships in vain; The children of the sea queen's brood Will not give up the main; We hold the sea against the world As we held it against Spain. Be warned by Manila, Take warning by Manila, Ye may trade by land, ye may fight by land, Ye may hold the land in fee; But not go down to the sea in ships To battle with the free; For England and America Will keep and hold the sea! Richard Hovey.

He took a thousand islands and he didn't lose a man (Raise your heads and cheer him as he goes!)— He licked the sneaky Spaniard till the fellow cut and ran, For fighting's part of what a Yankee knows. He fought 'em and he licked 'em, without any fuss or flam (It was only his profession for to win), He sank their boats beneath 'em, and he spared 'em as they swam, And then he sent his ambulances in. He had no word to cheer him and had no bands to play, He had no crowds to make his duty brave; But he risked the deep torpedoes at the breaking of the day, For he knew he had our self-respect to save. He flew the angry signal crying justice for the Maine, He flew it from his flagship as he fought. He drove the tardy vengeance in the very teeth of Spain, And he did it just because he thought he ought. He busted up their batteries and sank eleven ships (He knew what he was doing, every bit); He set the Maxims going like a hundred cracking whips, And every shot that crackled was a hit. He broke 'em and he drove 'em, and he didn't care at all, He only liked to do as he was bid; He crumpled up their squadron and their batteries and all,— He knew he had to lick 'em and he did. And when the thing was finished and they flew the frightened flag, He slung his guns and sent his foot ashore, And he gathered in their wounded, and he quite forgot to brag, For he thought he did his duty, nothing more. Oh, he took a thousand islands and he didn't lose a man (Raise your heads and cheer him as he goes!)— He licked the sneaky Spaniard till the fellow cut and ran, For fighting's part of what a Yankee knows! R. V. Risley.

Behold, we have gathered together our battleships, near and afar; Their decks they are cleared for action, their guns they are primed for war. From the East to the West there is hurry; in the North and the South a peal Of hammers in fort and ship-yard, and the clamor and clang of steel; And the rush and roar of engines, and clanking of derrick and crane,— Thou art weighed in the scales and found wanting, the balance of God, O Spain! Behold, I have stood on the mountains, and this was writ in the sky: "She is weighed in the scales and found wanting, the balance God holds on high!" The balance He once weighed Babylon, the Mother of Harlots, in: One scale holds thy pride and power and empire, begotten of sin, Heavy with woe and torture, the crimes of a thousand years, Mortared and welded together with fire and blood and tears; In the other, for justice and mercy, a blade with never a stain, Is laid the Sword of Liberty, and the balance dips, O Spain! Summon thy vessels together! great is thy need for these! Cristobal Colon, Vizcaya, Oquendo, Marie Therese. Let them be strong and many, for a vision I had by night, That the ancient wrongs thou hast done the world came howling to the fight; From the New World shores they gathered, Inca and Aztec, slain, To the Cuban shot but yesterday, and our own dead seamen, Spain! Summon thy ships together, gather a mighty fleet! For a strong young nation is arming that never hath known defeat. Summon thy ships together, there on thy blood-stained sands! For a shadowy army gathers with manacled feet and hands, A shadowy host of sorrows and of shames, too black to tell, That reach with their horrible wounds for thee to drag thee down to hell; Myriad phantoms and spectres, thou warrest against in vain! Thou art weighed in the scales and found wanting, the balance of God, O Spain! Madison Cawein.

In battle-line of sombre gray Our ships-of-war advance, As Red Cross Knights in holy fray Charged with avenging lance. And terrible shall be thy plight, O fleet of cruel Spain! Forever in our van doth fight The spirit of the Maine! As when beside Regillus Lake The Great Twin Brethren came A righteous fight for Rome to make Against the Deed of Shame— So now a ghostly ship shall doom The fleet of treacherous Spain: Before her guilty soul doth loom The Spirit of the Maine! A wraith arrayed in peaceful white, As when asleep she lay Above the traitorous mine that night Within Havana Bay, She glides before the avenging fleet, A sign of woe to Spain, Brave though her sons, how shall they meet The Spirit of the Maine! Tudor Jenks.

They say the Spanish ships are out To seize the Spanish main; Reach down the volume, boy, and read The story o'er again. How when the Spaniard had the might, He drenched the earth, like rain, With human blood, and made it death To sail the Spanish main. With torch and steel, and stake and rack, He trampled out all truce, Until Queen Bess her leashes slipt, And turned her sea-dogs loose. God! how they sprang! And how they tore! The Grenvilles, Hawkins, Drake! Remember, boy, they were your sires! They made the Spaniard quake. They sprang, like lions, for their prey, Straight for the throat, amain! By twos, by scores, where'er they caught They fought the ships of Spain. When Spain, in dark Ulloa's bay, Broke doubly-plighted faith, Bold Hawkins fought his way through fire For great Elizabeth. A bitter malt Spain brewed that day— She drained it to the lees; Her faithless guns that morn awoke The Dragon of the Seas. From sea to sea he ravaged far, A scourge with flaming breath— Where'er the Spaniard sailed his ships Sailed Francis Drake and Death. No port was safe against his ire, Secure no furthest shore; The fairest day oft sank in fire Before the Dragon's roar. He made th' Atlantic surges red Round every Spanish keel; Piled Spanish decks with Spanish dead, The noblest of Castile. From Del Fuego's beetling coast To sleety Hebrides, He hounded down the Spanish host, And swept the flaming seas. He fought till on Spain's inmost lakes 'Mid orange bowers set, La Mancha's daughters feared to sail Lest they the Dragon met. King Philip, of his raven reft, As forfeit claimed his head. The great Queen laughed his wrath to scorn, And knighted Drake instead. And gave him ships and sent him forth To clear the Spanish main For England and for England's brood, And sink the fleets of Spain. And well he wrought his mighty work, Till on that fatal day, He met his only conqueror, In Nombre Dios Bay. There, in his shotted hammock swung, Amid the surges' sweep, He waits the lookouts' signal Across the quiet deep. And dreams of dark Ulloa's bay And Spanish treachery; And how he tracked Magellan far Across the unknown sea. But if Spain fires a single shot Upon the Spanish main, She'll come to deem the Dragon dead Has waked to life again. Thomas Nelson Page.

Two fleets have sailed from Spain. The one would seek What lands uncharted ocean might conceal. Despised, condemned, and pitifully weak, It found a world for Leon and Castile. The other, mighty, arrogant, and vain, Sought to subdue a people who were free. Ask of the storm-gods where its galleons be,— Whelmed 'neath the billows of the northern main! A third is threatened. On the westward track, Once gloriously traced, its vessels speed, With gold and crimson battle-flags unfurled. On Colon's course, but to Sidonia's wrack, Sure fated, if so need shall come to need, For Sons of Drake are lords of Colon's world.

"Cut the cables!" the order read, And the men were there; there was no delay. The ships hove to in Cienfuegos Bay,— The Windom, Nashville, Marblehead,— Beautiful, grim, and alert were they, It was midway, past in the morning gray. "Cut the cables!" the order said— Over the clouds of the dashing spray, The guns were trained and ready for play; Picked from the Nashville, Winslow led,— Grim death waits ashore, they say; "Lower the boats, Godspeed, give way." Did "our untried navy lads" obey? Away to their perilous work they sped. Now, steady the keel, keep stroke the oar! They must go in close, they must find the wires; Grim death is alert on that watching shore, That deadly shore of the "Hundred Fires." In the lighthouse tower,—along the ledge,— In the blockhouse, waiting,—the guns are there; On the lowland, too, in the tall, dry sedge; They are holding the word till the boats draw near. One hundred feet from the water's edge, Dazzling clear is the sunlit air; Quick, my men,—the moments are dear! Two hundred feet from the rifle-pit, And our "untried" lads still show no fear— When they open now they're sure to hit; No question, even by sign, they ask, In silence they bend to their dangerous task. Quick now!—the shot from a smokeless gun Cuts close and spatters the glistening brine; Now follows the roar of the battle begun, But the boys were bent in the blazing sun Like peaceful fishermen, "wetting a line." They searched the sea while a shrieking blast Swept shoreward, swift as the lightning flies,— While the fan-like storm of the shells went past Like a death-wing clearing the hissing skies. Like a sheltering wing,—for the hurricane came From our own good guns, and the foe might tell What wreck was wrought by their deadly aim; For the foe went down where the hurricane fell. It shattered the blockhouse, levelled the tower, It ripped the face of the smoking hill, It beat the battle back, hour by hour, And then, for a little, our guns were still. For a little, but that was the fatal breath,— That moment's lull in the friendly crash,— For the long pit blazed with a vicious flash, And eight fell,—two of them done to death. Once more the screen of the screaming shot With its driving canopy covered the men, While they dragged, and grappled, and, faltering not, Still dragged, and searched, and grappled again. And they stayed right there till the work was done, The cables were found and severed, each one, With an eighty-foot gap, and the "piece" hauled in, And stowed in place,—then, under the din Of that deafening storm, that had swept the air For three long hours, they turned from shore ("Steady the keel" there; "stroke" the oar), To the smoke-wreathed ships, and, under the guns, They went up the side,—our "untried" ones. Quiet, my brave boys; hats off, all! They are here, our "untried" boys in blue. Steady the block, now, all hands haul! Slow on the line there!—look to that crew! Six lads hurt!—and the colors there? Wrap two of them?—hold! Ease back the bow! Slow, now, on the line!—slack down with care! Steady! they're back on their own deck now! The cables are cut, sir, eighty-foot spread, Six boys hurt, and—two of them dead. Half-mast the colors! there's work to do! There are two red marks on the starboard gun, There is still some work that is not quite done, For our "untried" boys that are tried and true. It wasn't all play when they cut the wires,— Well named is that bay of the "Hundred Fires." Robert Burns Wilson. June 2, 1898.

Lights out! And a prow turned towards the South, And a canvas hiding each cannon's mouth, And a ship like a silent ghost released Is seeking her sister ships in the East. A rush of water, a foaming trail, An ocean hound in a coat of mail, A deck long-lined with the lines of fate, She roars good-by at the Golden Gate. On! On! Alone without gong or bell, But a burning fire, like the fire of hell, Till the lookout starts as his glasses show The white cathedral of Callao. A moment's halt 'neath the slender spire; Food, food for the men, and food for the fire. Then out to the sea to rest no more Till her keel is grounded on Chili's shore. South! South! God guard through the unknown wave, Where chart nor compass may help or save, Where the hissing wraiths of the sea abide And few may pass through the stormy tide. North! North! For a harbor far away, For another breath in the burning day; For a moment's shelter from speed and pain, And a prow to the tropic sea again. Home! Home! With the mother fleet to sleep Till the call shall rise o'er the awful deep; And the bell shall clang for the battle there, And the voice of guns is the voice of prayer! * * * * * One more to the songs of the bold and free, When your children gather about your knee; When the Goths and Vandals come down in might As they came to the walls of Rome one night; When the lordly William of Deloraine Shall ride by the Scottish lake again; When the Hessian spectres shall flit in air As Washington crosses the Delaware; When the eyes of babes shall be closed in dread As the story of Paul Revere is read; When your boys shall ask what the guns are for, Then tell them the tale of the Spanish war, And the breathless millions that looked upon The matchless race of the Oregon. John James Meehan.

The billowy headlands swiftly fly The crested path I keep, My ribboned smoke stains many a sky, My embers dye the deep; A continent has hardly space— Mid-ocean little more, Wherein to trace my eager race While clang the alarums of war. I come, the warship Oregon, My wake a whitening world, My cannon shotted, thundering on With battle-flags unfurled. My land knows no successful foe— Behold, to sink or save, From stoker's flame to gunner's aim The race that rules the wave! A nation's prayers my bulwark are Though ne'er so wild the sea; Flow time or tide, come storm or star, Throbs my machinery. Lands Spain has lost forever peer From every lengthening coast, Till rings the cheer that proves me near The flag of Columbia's host. Defiantly I have held my way From the vigorous shore where Drake Dreamed a New Albion in the day He left New Spain a-quake; His shining course retraced, I fight The self-same foe he fought, All earth to light with signs of might Which God our Captain wrought. Made mad, from Santiago's mouth Spain's ships-of-battle dart: My bulk comes broadening from the south, A hurricane at heart; Its desperate armories blaze and boom, Its ardent engines beat; And fiery doom finds root and bloom Aboard of the Spanish fleet.... The hundredweight of the Golden Hind With me are ponderous tons, The ordnance great her deck that lined Would feed my ravening guns, Her spacious reach in months and years I've shrunk to nights and days; Yet in my ears are ringing cheers Sir Frank himself would raise: For conquereth not mine engines' breath Nor sides steel-clad and strong, Nor bulk, nor rifles red with death: To Spain, too, these belong; What made that old Armada break This newer victory won: Jehovah spake by the sons of Drake At each incessant gun. I come, the warship Oregon, My wake a whitening world, My cannon shotted, thundering on With battle-flags unfurled. My land knows no successful foe— Behold, to sink or save, From stoker's flame to gunner's aim The race that rules the wave! Wallace Rice.

The four-way winds of the world have blown, And the ships have ta'en the wave; The legions march to the trumps' shrill call 'Neath the flag of the free and brave. The hounds of the sea Have trailed the foe, They have trailed and tracked him down,— Then wait no longer, but strike, O land, With the dauntless strength of thy strong right hand, Strike the blow! The armored fleets, with their grinning guns, Have the Spaniard in his lair; They have tracked him down where the ramparts frown, And they'll halt and hold him there. They have steamed in his wake, They have seen him go, They have bottled and corked him up; Then send him home to the under-foam, Till the wide sea shakes to the far blue dome; Strike the blow! The Cuban dead and the dying call, The children starved in the light Of the aid that waits till the hero deed Breaks broad on the tyrant's might. The starved and the weak In their hour of woe Are calling, land, on thee; Then why delay in thy dauntless sway? On, on, to the charge of the freedom-way, Strike the blow! They have ta'en the winds of the Carib seas, Thy fleets that know not fear; Their ribs of steel have yearned to reel In the dance of the cannoneer. Thy sons of the blue That wait to go Would leap with a will to the charge, Then send them the word so long deferred; They have listened late, but they have not heard; Strike the blow! They have listened late in the desolate land, They have looked through brimming eyes, And starving women have held dead babes To their heart with a thousand sighs. On, on to the end, O land, the foe Beneath thy sword shall fall, Thy ships of steel have tracked them home, Ye are king of the land and king of the foam. Strike the blow!

Eight volunteers! on an errand of death! Eight men! Who speaks? Eight men to go where the cannon's hot breath Burns black the cheeks. Eight men to man the old Merrimac's hulk; Eight men to sink the old steamer's black bulk, Blockade the channel where Spanish ships skulk,— Eight men! Who speaks? "Eight volunteers!" said the Admiral's flags! Eight men! Who speaks? Who will sail under El Morro's black crags?— Sure death he seeks. Who is there willing to offer his life? Willing to march to this music of strife,— Cannon for drum and torpedo for fife? Eight men! Who speaks? Eight volunteers! on an errand of death! Eight men! Who speaks? Was there a man who in fear held his breath? With fear-paled cheeks? From ev'ry war-ship ascended a cheer! From ev'ry sailor's lips burst the word "Here!" Four thousand heroes their lives volunteer! Eight men! Who speaks? Lansing C. Bailey.

Hail to Hobson! Hail to Hobson! hail to all the valiant set! Clausen, Kelly, Deignan, Phillips, Murphy, Montagu, Charette! Howsoe'er we laud and laurel we shall be their debtors yet! Shame upon us, shame upon us, should the nation e'er forget! Though the tale be worn with the telling, let the daring deed be sung! Surely never brighter valor, since this wheeling world was young, Thrilled men's souls to more than wonder, till praise leaped from every tongue! Trapped at last the Spanish sea-fox in the hill-locked harbor lay; Spake the Admiral from his flagship, rocking off the hidden bay, "We must close yon open portal lest he slip by night away!" "Volunteers!" the signal lifted; rippling through the fleet it ran; Was there ever deadlier venture? was there ever bolder plan? Yet the gallant sailors answered, answered well-nigh to a man! Ere the dawn's first rose-flush kindled, swiftly sped the chosen eight Toward the batteries grimly frowning o'er the harbor's narrow gate; Sooth, he holds his life but lightly who thus gives the dare to Fate. They had passed the outer portal where the guns grinned, tier o'er tier, When portentous Morro thundered, and Socapa echoed clear, And Estrella joined the chorus pandemoniac to hear. Heroes without hands to waver, heroes without hearts to quail, There they sank the bulky collier 'mid the hurtling Spanish hail; Long shall float our starry banner if such lads beneath it sail! Hail to Hobson! hail to Hobson! hail to all the valiant set! Clausen, Kelly, Deignan, Phillips, Murphy, Montagu, Charette! Howsoe'er we laud and laurel we shall be their debtors yet! Shame upon us, shame upon us, should the nation e'er forget! Clinton Scollard.

O stealthily-creeping Merrimac, Hush low your fiery breath; You who gave life to ships of strife Are sailing unto your death!— "I am ready and dressed for burial, Beneath the Cuban wave; But still I can fight for God and right, While resting in my grave!" O men that are sailing the Merrimac, Your hearts are beating high; But send a prayer through the smoking air, To your Captain in the sky!— "We know there is death in every breath, As we cling to the gunless deck; And grand will be our voyage, if we Can make of our ship a wreck!" Now drop the bower of the Merrimac, And swing her to the tide. Now scuttle her, braves, and bid the waves Sweep into her shattered side!— "Through a flying hell of shot and shell, We passed Death, with a sneer; We wrenched our life from a novel strife, And even our foemen cheer!" Will Carleton.

Hobson went towards death and hell, Hobson and his men, Unregarding shot and shell, And the rain of fire that fell; Calm, undaunted, fearless, bold, Every heart a heart of gold, Steadfast, daring, uncontrolled,— Hobson and his men. Hobson came from death and hell, Hobson and his men, Shout the tidings, ring the bell, Let the pealing anthems swell; Back from wreck and raft and wave, From the shadow of the grave, Every honor to the brave.— Hobson and his men. Robert Loveman.

"Are you ready, O Virginia, Alabama, Tennessee? People of the Southland, answer! For the land hath need of thee." "Here!" from sandy Rio Grande, Where the Texan horsemen ride; "Here!" the hunters of Kentucky Hail from Chatterawah's side; Every toiler in the cotton, Every rugged mountaineer, Velvet-voiced and iron-handed, Lifts his head to answer, "Here! Some remain who charged with Pickett, Some survive who followed Lee; They shall lead their sons to battle For the flag, if need there be." "Are you ready, California, Arizona, Idaho? 'Come, oh, come, unto the colors!' Heard you not the bugle blow?" Falls a hush in San Francisco In the busy hives of trade; In the vineyards of Sonoma Fall the pruning knife and spade; In the mines of Colorado Pick and drill are thrown aside; Idly in Seattle harbor Swing the merchants to the tide; And a million mighty voices Throb responsive like a drum, Rolling from the rough Sierras, "You have called us, and we come." O'er Missouri sounds the challenge— O'er the great lakes and the plain; "Are you ready, Minnesota? Are you ready, men of Maine?" From the woods of Ontonagon, From the farms of Illinois, From the looms of Massachusetts, "We are ready, man and boy." Axemen free, of Androscoggin, Clerks who trudge the cities' paves, Gloucester men who drag their plunder From the sullen, hungry waves, Big-boned Swede and large-limbed German, Celt and Saxon swell the call, And the Adirondacks echo: "We are ready, one and all." Truce to feud and peace to faction! All forgot is party zeal When the war-ships clear for action, When the blue battalions wheel. Europe boasts her standing armies,— Serfs who blindly fight by trade; We have seven million soldiers, And a soul guides every blade. Laborers with arm and mattock, Laborers with brain and pen, Railroad prince and railroad brakeman Build our line of fighting men. Flag of righteous wars! close mustered Gleam the bayonets, row on row, Where thy stars are sternly clustered, With their daggers towards the foe! Arthur Guiterman.

Once more the Flower of Essex is marching to the wars; We are up to serve the Country wherever fly her Stars; Ashore, afloat, or far or near, to her who bore us true, We will do a freeman's duty as we were born to do. Lead the van, and may we lead it, God of armies, till the wrong shall cease; Speed the war, and may we speed it To the sweet home-coming, God of peace! Our fathers fought their battles, and conquered for the right, Three hundred years victorious from every stubborn fight; And still the Flower of Essex from the ancient stock puts forth, Where the bracing blue sea-water strings the sinews of the North. The foe on field, the foe on deck to us is all the same; With both the Flower of Essex has played a winning game; We threw them on the village green, we cowed them in Algiers, And ship to ship we shocked them in our first great naval years. We rowed the Great Commander o'er the ice-bound Delaware, When the Christmas snow was falling in the dark and wintry air; And still the Flower of Essex, like the heroes gone before, Where the tide of danger surges shall take the laboring oar. The Flower that first lay bleeding along by Bloody Brook Full oft hath Death upgathered in war's red reaping-hook; Its home is on our headlands; 'tis sweeter than the rose; But sweetest in the battle's breath the Flower of Essex blows. At the best a dear home-coming, at the worst a soldier's grave, Beating the tropic jungle, ploughing the dark blue wave; But while the Flower of Essex from the granite rock shall come, None but the dead shall cease to fight till all go marching home. March onward to the leaguer wherever it may lie; The Colors make the Country whatever be the sky; Where round the Flag of Glory the storm terrific blows, We march, we sail, whoever fail, the Flower of Essex goes. George Edward Woodberry.

We are coming, Cuba,—coming; our starry banner shines Above the swarming legions, sweeping downward to the sea. From Northern hill, and Western plain, and towering Southern pines The serried hosts are gathering,—and Cuba shall be free. We are coming, Cuba,—coming. Thy sturdy patriots brave, Who fight as fought our fathers in the old time long ago, Shall see the Spanish squadrons sink beneath the whelming wave, And plant their own loved banner on the ramparts of their foe. We are coming, Cuba,—coming. Across the billow's foam Our gallant ships are bearing our bravest down to thee, While earnest prayers are rising from every freeman's home That freedom's God may lead them on, and Cuba shall be free. Herbert B. Swett.

Now from their slumber waking,— The long sleep men thought death— The War Gods rise, inhaling deep The cannon's fiery breath! Their mighty arms uplifted, Their gleaming eyes aglow With the steadfast light of battle, As it blazed long years ago! Now from the clouds they summon The Captains of the Past, Still sailing in their astral ships The star-lit spaces vast; And from Valhalla's peaceful plains The Great Commanders come, And marshal again their armies To the beat of the muffled drum. His phantom sails unfurling McDonough sweeps amain Where once his Yankee sailors fought The battle of Champlain! And over Erie's waters, Again his flagship sweeps, While Perry on the quarter-deck His endless vigil keeps. Silent as mists that hover When twilight shadows fall, The ghosts of the royal armies Foregather at the call; And their glorious chiefs are with them, From conflicts lost or won, As they gather round one mighty shade, The shade of Washington! * * * * * Side by side with the warships That sail for the hostile fleet, The ships of the Past are sailing And the dauntless comrades meet; And standing shoulder to shoulder, The armèd spirits come, And march with our own battalions To the beat of the muffled drum! Henry R. Dorr.

Beneath the blistering tropical sun The column is standing ready, Awaiting the fateful command of one Whose word will ring out To an answering shout To prove it alert and steady. And a stirring chorus all of them sung With singleness of endeavor, Though some to "The Bonny Blue Flag" had swung And some to "The Union For Ever." The order came sharp through the desperate air And the long ranks rose to follow, Till their dancing banners shone more fair Than the brightest ray Of the Cuban day On the hill and jungled hollow; And to "Maryland" some in the days gone by Had fought through the combat's rumble, And some for "Freedom's Battle-Cry" Had seen the broad earth crumble. Full many a widow weeps in the night Who had been a man's wife in the morning; For the banners we loved we bore to the height Where the enemy stood As a hero should, His valor his country adorning; But drops of pride with your tears of grief, Ye American women, mix ye! For the North and South, with a Southron chief, Kept time to the tune of "Dixie." Wallace Rice.

Who cries that the days of daring are those that are faded far, That never a light burns planet-bright to be hailed as the hero's star? Let the deeds of the dead be laurelled, the brave of the elder years, But a song, we say, for the men of to-day, who have proved themselves their peers! High in the vault of the tropic sky is the garish eye of the sun, And down with its crown of guns afrown looks the hilltop to be won; There is the trench where the Spaniard lurks, his hold and his hiding-place, And he who would cross the space between must meet death face to face. The black mouths belch and thunder, and the shrapnel shrieks and flies; Where are the fain and the fearless, the lads with the dauntless eyes? Will the moment find them wanting! Nay, but with valor stirred! Like the leashed hound on the coursing-ground they wait but the warning word. "Charge!" and the line moves forward, moves with a shout and a swing, While sharper far than the cactus-thorn is the spiteful bullet's sting. Now they are out in the open, and now they are breasting the slope, While into the eyes of death they gaze as into the eyes of hope. Never they wait nor waver, but on they clamber and on, With "Up with the flag of the Stripes and Stars, and down with the flag of the Don!" What should they bear through the shot-rent air but rout to the ranks of Spain, For the blood that throbs in their hearts is the blood of the boys of Anthony Wayne! See, they have taken the trenches! Where are the foemen? Gone! And now "Old Glory" waves in the breeze from the heights of San Juan! And so, while the dead are laurelled, the brave of the elder years, A song, we say, for the men of to-day who have proved themselves their peers. Clinton Scollard.

With shot and shell, like a loosened hell, Smiting them left and right, They rise or fall on the sloping wall Of beetling bush and height! They do not shrink at the awful brink Of the rifle's hurtling breath, But onward press, as their ranks grow less, To the open arms of death! Through a storm of lead, o'er maimed and dead, Onward and up they go, Till hand to hand the unflinching band Grapple the stubborn foe. O'er men that reel, 'mid glint of steel, Bellow or boom of gun, They leap and shout over each redoubt Till the final trench is won! O charge sublime! Over dust and grime Each hero hurls his name In shot or shell, like a molten hell, To the topmost heights of fame! And prone or stiff, under bush and cliff, Wounded or dead men lie, While the tropic sun on a grand deed done Looks with his piercing eye! William Hamilton Hayne.

It was Private Blair, of the regulars, before dread El Caney, Who felt with every throb of his wound the life-tide ebb away; And as he dwelt in a fevered dream on the home of his youthful years, He heard near by the moan and sigh of two of the volunteers. He raised him up and gazed at them, and likely lads they were, But when he bade them pluck up heart he found they could not stir. Then a bullet ploughed the sodden loam, and his fearless face grew dark, For he saw through the blur a sharpshooter who made the twain his mark. And his strength leaped into his limbs again, and his fading eye burned bright; And he gripped his gun with a steady hand and glanced along the sight; Then another voice in that choir of fire outspake with a deadly stress, And in the trench at El Caney there lurked a Spaniard less. But still the moans of the volunteers went up through the murky air, And there kindled the light of a noble thought in the brain of Private Blair. The flask at his side, he had drained it dry in the blistering scorch and shine, So, unappalled, he crept and crawled in the face of the firing line. The whirring bullets sped o'erhead, and the great shells burst with a roar, And the shrapnel tore the ground around like the tusks of the grisly boar; But on he went, with his high intent, till he covered the space between, And came to the place where the Spaniard lay and clutched his full canteen. Then he writhed him back o'er the bloody track, while Death drummed loud in his ears, And pressed the draught he would fain have quaffed to the lips of the volunteers. Drink! cried he; don't think of me, for I'm only a regular, While you have homes in the mother-land where your waiting loved ones are. Then his soul was sped to the peace of the dead. All praise to the men who dare, And honor be from sea to sea to the deed of Private Blair! Clinton Scollard.

Into the thick of the fight he went, pallid and sick and wan, Borne in an ambulance to the front, a ghostly wisp of a man; But the fighting soul of a fighting man, approved in the long ago, Went to the front in that ambulance, and the body of Fighting Joe. Out from the front they were coming back, smitten of Spanish shells— Wounded boys from the Vermont hills and the Alabama dells; "Put them into this ambulance; I'll ride to the front," he said, And he climbed to the saddle and rode right on, that little old ex-Confed. From end to end of the long blue ranks rose up the ringing cheers, And many a powder-blackened face was furrowed with sudden tears, As with flashing eyes and gleaming sword, and hair and beard of snow, Into the hell of shot and shell rode little old Fighting Joe! Sick with fever and racked with pain, he could not stay away, For he heard the song of the yester-year in the deep-mouthed cannon's bay— He heard in the calling song of the guns there was work for him to do, Where his country's best blood splashed and flowed 'round the old Red, White and Blue. Fevered body and hero heart! this Union's heart to you Beats out in love and reverence—and to each dear boy in blue Who stood or fell 'mid the shot and shell, and cheered in the face of the foe, As, wan and white, to the heart of the fight rode little old Fighting Joe! James Lindsay Gordon.

They fling their flags upon the morn, Their safety's held a thing for scorn, As to the fray the Spaniards on the wings of war are borne; Their sullen smoke-clouds writhe and reel, And sullen are their ships of steel, All ready, cannon, lanyards, from the fighting-tops to keel. They cast upon the golden air One glancing, helpless, hopeless prayer, To ask that swift and thorough be the victory falling there; Then giants with a cheer and sigh Burst forth to battle and to die Beneath the walls of Morro on that morning in July. The Teresa heads the haughty train To bear the Admiral of Spain, She rushes, hurtling, whitening, like the summer hurricane; El Morro glowers in his might; Socapa crimsons with the fight, The Oquendo's lunging lightning blazes through her sombre night. In desperate and eager dash The Vizcaya hurls her vivid flash, As wild upon the waters her enormous batteries crash; Like spindrift scuds the fleet Colon, And, on her bubbling wake bestrown, Lurch, hungry for the slaughter, El Furor and El Pluton. Round Santiago's armored crest, Serene, in their gray valor dressed, Our behemoths lie quiet, watching well from south and west; Their keen eyes spy the harbor-reek; The signals dance, the signals speak; Then breaks the blasting riot as our broadsides storm and shriek! Quick, poising on her eagle-wings, The Brooklyn into battle swings; The wide sea falls and wonders as the titan Texas springs; The Iowa in monster-leaps Goes bellowing above the deeps; The Indiana thunders as her terror onward sweeps. And, hovering near and hovering low Until the moment strikes to go, In gallantry the Gloucester swoops down on her double foe; She volleys—the Furor falls lame; Again—and the Pluton's aflame, Hurrah, on high she's tossed her! Gone the grim destroyers' fame! And louder yet and louder roar The Oregon's black cannon o'er The clangor and the booming all along the Cuban shore. She's swifting down her valkyr-path, Her sword sharp for the aftermath, With levin in her glooming, like Jehovah in His wrath. Great ensigns snap and shine in air Above the furious onslaught where Our sailors cheer the battle, danger but a thing to dare; Our gunners speed, as oft they've sped, Their hail of shrilling, shattering lead, Swift-sure our rifles rattle, and the foeman's decks are red. Like baying bloodhounds lope our ships, Adrip with fire their cannons' lips; We scourge the fleeing Spanish, whistling weals from scorpion-whips; Till, livid in the ghastly glare, They tremble on in dread despair, And thoughts of victory vanish in the carnage they must bear. Where Cuban coasts in beauty bloom, Where Cuban breakers swirl and boom, The Teresa's onset slackens in a scarlet spray of doom; Near Nimanima's greening hill The streaming flames cry down her will, Her vast hull blows and blackens, prey to every mortal ill. On Juan Gonzales' foaming strand The Oquendo plunges 'neath our hand, Her armaments all strangled, and her hope a showering brand; She strikes and grinds upon the reef, And, shuddering there in utter grief, In misery and mangled, wastes away beside her chief. The Vizcaya nevermore shall ride From out Aserradero's tide, With hate upon her forehead ne'er again she'll pass in pride; Beneath our fearful battle-spell She moaned and struggled, flared and fell, To lie a-gleam and horrid, while the piling fires swell. Thence from the wreck of Spain alone Tears on the terrified Colon, In bitter anguish crying, like a storm-bird forth she's flown; Her throbbing engines creak and thrum; She sees abeam the Brooklyn come, For life she's gasping, flying; for the combat is she dumb. Till then the man behind the gun Had wrought whatever must be done— Here, now, beside our boilers is the fight fought out and won; Where great machines pulse on and beat, A-swelter in the humming heat The Nation's nameless toilers make her mastery complete. The Cape o' the Cross casts out a stone Against the course of the Colon, Despairing and inglorious on the wind her white flag's thrown; Spain's last Armada, lost and wan, Lies where Tarquino's stream rolls on, As round the world, victorious, looms the dreadnaught Oregon. The sparkling daybeams softly flow To glint the twilight afterglow, The banner sinks in splendor that in battle ne'er was low; The music of our country's hymn Rings out like songs of seraphim, Fond memories and tender fill the evening fair and dim; Our huge ships ride in majesty Unchallenged o'er the glittering sea, Above them white stars cluster, mighty emblem of the free; And all a-down the long sea-lane The fitful bale-fires wax and wane To shed their lurid lustre on the empire that was Spain. Wallace Rice.

In the stagnant pride of an outworn race The Spaniard sail'd the sea: Till we haled him up to God's judgment-place— And smashed him by God's decree! Out from the harbor, belching smoke, Came dashing seaward the Spanish ships— And from all our decks a great shout broke, Then our hearts came up and set us a-choke For joy that we had them at last at grips! No need for signals to get us away— We were off at score, with our screws a-gleam! Through the blistering weeks we'd watched the bay And our captains had need not a word to say— Save to bellow and curse down the pipes for steam! Leading the pack in its frightened flight The Colon went foaming away to the west— Her tall iron bulwarks, black as night, And her great black funnels, sharp in sight 'Gainst the green-clad hills in their peace and rest. Her big Hontaria blazed away At the Indiana, our first in line. The short-ranged shot drenched our decks with spray— While our thirteen-inchers, in answering play, Ripped straight through her frame to her very spine! * * * * * Straight to its end went our winning fight With the thunder of guns in a mighty roar. Our hail of iron, casting withering blight, Turning the Spanish ships in their flight To a shorter death on the rock-bound shore. The Colon, making her reckless race With the Brooklyn and Oregon close a-beam, Went dashing landward—and stopped the chase By grinding her way to her dying-place In a raging outburst of flame and steam. So the others, facing their desperate luck, Drove headlong on to their rock-dealt death— The Vizcaya, yielding before she struck, The riddled destroyers, a huddled ruck, Sinking, and gasping for drowning breath. So that flying battle surged down the coast, With its echoing roar from the Cuban land; So the dying war-ships gave up the ghost; So we shattered and mangled the Philistine host— So the fight was won that our Sampson planned! Thomas A. Janvier.

The heart leaps with the pride of their story. Predestinate lords of the sea! They are heirs of the flag and its glory, They are sons of the soil it keeps free; For their deeds the serene exaltation Of a cause that was stained with no shame, For their dead the proud tears of a nation, Their fame shall endure with its fame. The fervor that grim, unrelenting, The founders in homespun had fired, With blood the free compact cementing, Was the flame that their souls had inspired. They were sons of the dark tribulations, Of the perilous days of the birth Of a nation sprung free among nations, A new hope to the children of earth! They were nerved by the old deeds of daring, Every tale of Decatur they knew, Every ship that, the bright banner bearing, Shot to keep it afloat in the blue; They were spurred by the splendor undying Of Somer's fierce fling in the bay, And the Watchword that Lawrence died crying, And of Cushing's calm courage were they. By the echo of guns at whose thunder Old monarchies crumbled and fell, When the warships were shattered asunder And their pennants went down in the swell; By the strength of the race that, unfearing, Faces death till the death of the last, Or has sunk with the fierce Saxon cheering, Its colors still nailed to the mast— So they fought—and the stern race immortal Of Cromwell and Hampton and Penn Has thrown open another closed portal, Stricken chains from a new race of men. So they fought, so they won, so above them Blazed the light of a consecrate aim; Empty words! Who may tell how we love them, How we thrill with the joy of their fame! Charles E. Russell.