THE BATTLE OF SPITHEAD.
Of Cochrane and the Court,
Sing the glorious day's renown,
When to Spithead did resort
All that London could send down
Where they lodged the night before, is unknown—
Room to sit, or sleep, or stand,
Fancy prices did command:
With the houseless, street and strand
Thick were strewn.
Many a cockney was afloat,
Unaccustomed to the brine;
But no wind to speak of blew,
And the day was bright and fine;
It was ten of Thursday morn by the chime,
And no ripple curled in wrath,
As they steamed upon their path,
And sniffed old Neptune's breath.
Oh, 'twas prime!
Old penny boats, new-brushed,
Till they looked quite smart and clean,
Their bows plebeian pushed
More nobby craft between.
"Give 'em coke!" the captains cried; and each one
Charged his furnace to the lips,
Till steamers, yachts, and ships,
The funnel's clouds eclipse—
Dark and dun!
In vain! in vain! in vain!
All attempts to keep 'em back;—
With a turn-a-head, again
They were right across the track—
Underneath some first-rate's bows, or frigate's boom—
Spite of angry captain's hail,
And passengers grown pale,
When did Thames' steamers fail,
To find room?
The well-bred yachting men
Much better did behave,
With six pounders and e'en ten
Their salute they duly gave,
And their burgees to the breeze did smartly fling—
While Solent's shores repeat
The thunders of the fleet,
That Her Majesty to greet,
Loudly ring!
Till to the great relief
Of eyes and ears and nose,
At a signal from the chief
The salutes came to a close,
And we thought the firing over for the day;
While Cobden and friend Bright
Asked themselves "if such a sight
Of powder we'd a right
To fire away?"
When sudden through the haze,
The foemen heave in sight,
And again those broadsides blaze
In the mimicry of fight—
But yet, from out the cannon's harmless roar,
Speaks a warning true and deep,
Of the floating powers that sleep,
The curse of war to keep
From our shore!
The friends of peace may chide,
But not the less 'tis true,
There's a time our strength to hide,
And a time to show it, too;
'Tis not always true economy to save—
Then wherever ocean rolls,
From the equator to the Poles,
May our hearts of oak bear sail,
True and brave!
An Obtuse Angle?—Attempting to catch a perch with a hook, but no bait.
