| |
| 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, | 5 |
| 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 | 10 |
| 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; | 15 |
| El Morro glowers in his might; | |
| Socapa crimsons with the fight; | |
| The Oquendo’s lunging lightning blazes through her somber night. | |
| |
| In desperate and eager dash | |
| The Vizcaya hurls her vivid flash, | 20 |
| 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, | 25 |
| 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! | 30 |
| |
| 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; | 35 |
| 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; | 40 |
| 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. | 45 |
| 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 | 50 |
| Our sailors cheer the battle, danger but a thing to dare; | |
| Our gunners speed, as oft they’ve sped, 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, | 55 |
| 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. | 60 |
| |
| 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, | 65 |
| 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, | 70 |
| 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; | 75 |
| 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, | 80 |
| 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 | 85 |
| 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. | 90 |
| |
| 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, | 95 |
| 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 | 100 |
| 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; | 105 |
| 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. | |
| |
