Unable to attain that end,
He turns toward the neutral friend,
And hoped protection they might lend,
But no protection found.
In this distress, the foe advanced—
With such an eye at Essex glanced!
And such a fire of death commenced
As dealt destruction round!
With every shot they raked the deck,
Till mingled ruin seized the wreck:
No valor could the ardor check
Of England's martial tars!
One hundred men the Essex lost:
But Phoebe found, and to her cost,
That Porter made them many a ghost
To serve in Satan's wars.
Oh, clouded scene!—yet must I tell
Columbia's flag, indignant, fell—
To Essex, now, we bid farewell;
She wears the english flag!
But Yankees she has none on board
To point the gun or wield the sword;
And though commanded by a lord
They'll have no cause to brag.
THE TERRIFIC TORPEDOES[201]
OR SIR THOMAS HARDY'S SOLILOQUY.
"Then traitor come! as black revenge excites,
Extinguish all our claims with all my lights!
But keen remorse, which vengeful furies lead,
Will act her part for this inhuman deed.
How will her vultures on your vitals prey!
How will her stings our every death repay!—
O nature! is all sympathy a jest;
Art thou a stranger to the human breast?
Has manly prowess quit the abandon'd stage,
Are midnight plots the order of the age?
"Where proud New-London holds her flaming guide
To steer Decatur through the darksome tide,
I stay too long! what station can I find
To shake distraction from a tortured mind!
"Then, traitor, come! your dark attack begin,
Renown'd inventor of the black machine:
But mark!—for when some future poet tells,
Or some historian on the subject dwells,
No word of praise shall meet the listening ear,
Disgustful story, to repeat or hear—
Was you, an infant, to a mother press'd,
Or did ferocious tigers give the breast—
Did nature in some angry moment plan
Some fierce hyena to degrade the man?
Resolve me quick, for doubtful while I stay
These dark torpedoes may be on their way.
Does nature thus her heaviest curse impart
And will she give such countenance to art?—
She gave you all that rancor could bestow,
She lent her magic from the world below;
She gave you all that madness could propose,
And all her malice in your bosom glows;
She gave you sulphur, charcoal, nitre join'd:
She gave you not—a great and generous mind."
So spoke the knight, and slamm'd the door,
And thus went on, with feelings sore:
"I relish not torpedo war:—
Die when I will, or where I may,
I would not choose so short a way:
These twenty nights I did my best
To shut my eyes, and take my rest,
But drowsy Morpheus might as well
Upon the main mast try his spell.
No potion from the poppy's leaf
Can close my lids;—and, to be brief,
This Fulton, with his dashing plans,
Distracts my head, my heart unmans:
And, every night, I have my fears
Of such infernal engineers;
Who, when I sup, or could I sleep
Might row their wherry through the deep,
And screw their engine to the keel,
And blow us—where there's no appeal;
No question how, or where we died,
But how we lived, and how applied
The little sense our heads contain
To save our souls, and live again.