Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE BALLAD OF NEW ORLEANS, by GEORGE HENRY BOKER Poet's Biography First Line: Just as the hour was darkest Last Line: Were resting the will and the power. Subject(s): American Civil War; Farragut, David Glascow (1801-1870); New Orleans, Battle Of (1862); United States - History | ||||||||
JUST as the hour was darkest, Just between night and day, From the flag-ship shone the signal, "Get the squadrons under way." Not a sound but the tramp of sailors, And the wheeling capstan's creak, Arose from the busy vessels As the anchors came apeak. The men worked on in silence, With never a shout or cheer, Till 't was whispered from bow to quarter: "Start forward! all is clear." Then groaned the ponderous engine, Then floundered the whirling screw; And as ship joined ship, the comrades Their lines of battle drew. The moon through the fog was casting A blur of lurid light, As the captain's latest order Was flashed into the night. "Steam on! and whatever fortune May follow the attack, Sink with your bows still northward No vessel must turn back!" 'T was hard when we heard that order To smother a rising shout; For it wakened the life within us, And we burned to give it out. All wrapped in the foggy darkness, Brave Bailey moved ahead; And stem after stern, his gunboats To the starboard station led. Next Farragut's stately flag-ship To port her head inclined; And midmost, and most in danger, Bell's squadron closed behind. Ah! many a prayer was murmured For the homes we ne'er might see; And the silence and night grew dreadful With the thought of what must be. For many a tall, stout fellow Who stood at his quarters then, In the damp and dismal moonlight, Never saw the sun again. Close down by the yellow river In their oozy graves they rot; Strange vines and strange weeds grow o'er them, And their far homes know them not. But short was our time of musing; For the rebel forts discerned That the whole great fleet was moving, And their batteries on us turned. Then Porter burst out from his mortars, In jets of fiery spray, As if a volcano had opened Where his leaf-clad vessels lay. Howling and screeching and whizzing The bomb-shells arched on high, And then, like gigantic meteors, Dropped swiftly from the sky. Dropped down on the low, doomed fortress A plague of iron death, Shattering earth and granite to atoms With their puffs of sulphurous breath. The whole air quaked and shuddered As the huge globes rose and fell, And the blazing shores looked awful As the open gates of hell. Fort Jackson and Fort Saint Philip, And the battery on the right, By this time were flashing and thundering Out into the murky night. Through the hulks and the cables, sundered By the bold Itasca's crew, Went Bailey in silence, though round him The shells and the grape-shot flew. No answer he made to their welcome, Till abeam Saint Philip bore, Then, oh, but he sent them a greeting In his broadsides' steady roar! Meanwhile, the old man, in the Hartford, Had ranged to Fort Jackson's side; What a sight! he slowed his engines Till he barely stemmed the tide; Yes, paused in that deadly tornado Of case-shot and shell and ball, Not a cable's length from the fortress, And he lay there, wood to wall. Have you any notion, you landsmen, Who have seen a field-fight won, Of canister, grape-shot, and shrapnel Hurled out from a ten-inch gun? I tell you, the air is nigh solid With the howling iron flight; And 't was such a tempest blew o'er us Where the Hartford lay that night. Perched aloft in the forward rigging, With his restless eyes aglow, Sat Farragut, shouting his orders To the men who fought below. And the fort's huge faces of granite Were splintered and rent in twain, And the masses seemed slowly melting, Like snow in a torrid rain. Now quicker and quicker we fired, Till between us and the foe A torrent of blazing vapor Was leaping to and fro; While the fort, like a mighty caldron, Was boiling with flame and smoke, And the stone flew aloft in fragments, And the brick into powder broke. So thick fell the clouds o'er the river, You hardly could see your hand; When we heard, from the foremast rigging, Old Farragut's sharp command: "Full ahead! Steam across to Saint Philip! Starboard battery, mind your aim! Forecastle there, shift your pivots! Now Give them a taste of the same!" Saint Philip grew faint in replying, Its voice of thunder was drowned; "But ha! what is this? Back the engines! Back, back, the ship is aground!" Straight down the swift current came sweeping A raft, spouting sparks and flame; Pushed on by an iron-clad rebel, Under our port side it came. At once the good Hartford was blazing, Below, aloft, fore and aft. "We are lost!" "No, no; we are moving!" Away whirled the crackling raft. The fire was soon quenched. One last broadside We gave to the surly fort; For above us the rebel gunboats Were wheeling like devils at sport. And into our vacant station Had glided a bulky form; 'T was Craven's stout Brooklyn, demanding Her share of the furious storm. We could hear the shot of Saint Philip Ring on her armor of chain, And the crash of her answering broadside, Taking and giving again. We could hear the low growl of Craven, And Lowry's voice clear and calm, While they swept off the rebel ramparts As clean as your open palm. Then ranging close under our quarter, Out burst from the smoky fogs The queen of the waves, the Varuna, The ship of bold Charley Boggs. He waved his blue cap as he passed us; The blood of his glorious race, Of Lawrence, the hero, was burning Once more in a living face. Right and left flashed his heavy pieces, Rams, gunboats -- it mattered not, Wherever a rebel flag floated Was a target for his shot. All burning and sinking around him Lay five of the foe; but he, The victor, seemed doomed with the vanquished, When along dashed gallant Lee. And he took up the bloody conflict, And so well his part he bore, That the river ran fire behind him, And glimmered from shore to shore. But while powder would burn in a cannon, Till the water drowned his deck, Boggs pounded away with his pivots From his slowly settling wreck. I think our great captains in Heaven, As they looked upon those deeds, Were proud of the flower of that navy, Of which they planted the seeds. Paul Jones, the knight-errant of ocean, Decatur, the lord of the seas, Hull, Lawrence, and Bainbridge, and Biddle, And Perry, the peer of all these! If Porter beheld his descendant, With some human pride on his lip, I trust, through the mercy of Heaven, His soul was forgiven that slip. And thou, living veteran, Old Ironsides, The last of the splendid line, Thou link 'twixt the old and new glory, I know what feelings were thine! When the sun looked over the tree-tops, We found ourselves -- Heaven knows how -- Above the grim forts; and that instant A smoke broke from Farragut's bow. And over the river came floating The sound of the morning gun; And the stars and stripes danced up the halyards, And glittered against the sun. Oh, then what a shout from the squadrons! As flag followed flag, till the day Was bright with the beautiful standard, And wild with the victors' huzza! But three ships were missing. The others Had passed through that current of flame; And each scar on their shattered bulwarks Was touched by the finger of Fame. Below us, the forts of the rebels Lay in the trance of despair; Above us, uncovered and helpless, New Orleans clouded the air. Again, in long lines we went steaming Away towards the city's smoke; And works were deserted before us, And columns of soldiers broke. In vain the town clamored and struggled; The flag at our peak ruled the hour; And under its shade, like a lion, Were resting the will and the power. | Other Poems of Interest...JOHN BROWN'S BODY by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET A VISIT TO GETTYSBURG by LUCILLE CLIFTON AFTER SPOTSYLVANIA COURT HOUSE by DAVID FERRY ACROSS THE LONG DARK BORDER by EDWARD HIRSCH WALT WHITMAN IN THE CIVIL WAR HOSPITALS by DAVID IGNATOW THE DAY OF THE DEAD SOLDIERS; MARY 30, 1869 by EMMA LAZARUS MANHATTAN, 1609 by EDWIN MARKHAM THE DECISION (APRIL 14, 1861) by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE SPARROW HARK IN THE RAIN (ALEXANDER STEPHENS HEARS NEWS) by EDGAR LEE MASTERS COUNTESS LAURA by GEORGE HENRY BOKER DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER [SEPTEMBER 1, 1862] by GEORGE HENRY BOKER |
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