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| ’TWIXT clouded heights Spain hurls to doom | |
| Ships staunch and brave, | |
| Majestic, forth they flash and boom | |
| Upon the wave. | |
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| El Morro raises eyes of hate | 5 |
| Far out to sea, | |
| And speeds Cervera to his fate | |
| With canonry. | |
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| The Brooklyn o’er the deep espies | |
| His flame-wreathed side: | 10 |
| She sets her banners on the skies | |
| In fearful pride. | |
| |
| On, to the harbor’s mouth of fire, | |
| Fierce for the fray, | |
| She darts, an eagle from his eyre, | 15 |
| Upon her prey. | |
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| She meets the brave Teresa there— | |
| Sigh, sigh for Spain!— | |
| And beats her clanging armor bare | |
| With glittering rain. | 20 |
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| The bold Vizcaya’s lightnings glance | |
| Into the throng | |
| Where loud the bannered Brooklyn chants | |
| Her awful song. | |
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| Down swoops, in one tremendous curve, | 25 |
| Our Commodore; | |
| His broadsides roll, the foemen swerve | |
| Toward the shore. | |
| |
| In one great round his Brooklyn turns | |
| And, girdling there | 30 |
| This side and that with glory, burns | |
| Spain to despair. | |
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| Frightful in onslaught, fraught with fate | |
| Her missiles hiss: | |
| The Spaniard sees, when all too late, | 35 |
| A Nemesis. | |
| |
| The Oquendo’s diapason swells; | |
| Then, torn and lame, | |
| Her portholes turn to yawning wells, | |
| Geysers of flame. | 40 |
| |
| Yet fierce and fiercer breaks and cries | |
| Our rifles’ dread: | |
| The doomed Teresa shudders—lies | |
| Stark with her dead. | |
| |
| How true the Brooklyn’s battery speaks | 45 |
| Eulate knows, | |
| As the Vizcaya staggers, shrieks | |
| Her horrent woes. | |
| |
| Sideward she plunges: nevermore | |
| Shall Biscay feel | 50 |
| Her heart throb for the ship that wore | |
| Her name in steel. | |
| |
| The Oquendo’s ports a moment shone, | |
| As gloomed her knell; | |
| She trembles, bursts—the ship is gone | 55 |
| Headlong to hell. | |
| |
| The fleet Colon in lonely flight— | |
| Spain’s hope, Spain’s fear!— | |
| Sees, and it lends her wings of fright, | |
| Schley’s pennant near. | 60 |
| |
| The fleet Colon scuds on alone— | |
| God, how she runs!— | |
| And ever hears behind her moan | |
| The Brooklyn’s guns. | |
| |
| Our ruthless cannon o’er the flood | 65 |
| Roar and draw nigh; | |
| Spain’s ensign stained with gold and blood, | |
| Falls from on high. | |
| |
| The world she gave the World has passed— | |
| Gone, with her power— | 70 |
| Dead, ’neath the Brooklyn’s thunderblast, | |
| In one great hour. | |
| |
| The bannered Brooklyn! gallant crew, | |
| And gallant Schley! | |
| Proud is the flag his sailors flew | 75 |
| Along the sky. | |
| |
| Proud is his country: for each star | |
| Our Union wears, | |
| The fighting Brooklyn shows a scar— | |
| So much he dares. | 80 |
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| God save us war upon the seas; | |
| But, if it slip, | |
| Send such a chief, with men like these, | |
| On such a ship! | |
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