April 7th, 1863.
Reading edition
By Paul H. Hayne.
I.
Two hours, or more, beyond the prime of a blithe April day, The Northman's mailed "Invincibles" steamed up fair Charleston Bay; They came in sullen file, and slow, low-breasted on the wave, Black as a midnight front of storm, and silent as the grave.
II.
A thousand warrior-hearts beat high as those dread monsters drew More closely to the game of death across the breezeless blue, And twice ten thousand hearts of those who watched the scene afar, Thrill in the awful hush that bides the battle's broadening Star!
III.
Each gunner, moveless by his gun, with rigid aspect stands, The ready linstocks firmly grasped in bold, untrembling hands, So moveless in their marbled calm, their stern heroic guise, They looked like forms of statued stone with burning human eyes!
IV.
Our banners on the outmost walls, with stately rustling fold, Flash back from arch and parapet the sunlight's ruddy gold-- They mount to the deep roll of drums, and widely-echoing cheers, And then--once more, dark, breathless, hushed, wait the grim cannoneers.
V.
Onward--in sullen file, and slow, low glooming on the wave, Near, nearer still, the haughty fleet glides silent as the grave, When sudden, shivering up the calm, o'er startled flood and shore, Burst from the sacred Island Fort the thunder-wrath of yore![1]
VI.
Ha! brutal Corsairs! tho' ye come thrice-cased in iron mail, Beware the storm that's opening now, God's vengeance guides the hail! Ye strive the ruffian types of Might 'gainst law, and truth, and Right, Now quail beneath a sturdier Power, and own a mightier Might!
VII.
No empty boast! I for while we speak, more furious, wilder, higher, Dart from the circling batteries a hundred tongues of fire. The waves gleam red, the lurid vault of heaven seems rent above. Fight on! oh! knightly Gentlemen! for faith, and home, and love!
VIII.
There's not in all that line of flame, one soul that would not rise, To seize the Victor's wreath of blood, tho' Death must give the prize-- There's not in all this anxious crowd that throngs the ancient Town, A maid who does not yearn for power to strike one despot down.
IX.
The strife grows fiercer! ship by ship the proud Armada sweeps, Where hot from Sumter's raging breast the volleyed lightning leaps; And ship by ship, raked, overborne, 'ere burned the sunset bloom, Crawls seaward, like a hangman's hearse bound to his felon tomb!
X.
Oh! glorious Empress of the Main! from out thy storied spires, Thou well mayst peal thy bells of joy, and light thy festal fires-- Since Heaven this day hath striven for thee, hath nerved thy dauntless sons, And thou, in clear-eyed faith hast seen God's Angels near the guns!
[1] Fort Moultrie fired the first gun.