But weary to the hearts of all The burning glare, the barren reach Of Santa Rosa’s withered beach, And Pensacola’s ruined wall.
And weary was the long patrol, The thousand miles of shapeless strand, From Brazos to San Blas that roll Their drifting dunes of desert sand.
Yet coastwise as we cruised or lay, The land-breeze still at nightfall bore, By beach and fortress-guarded bay, Sweet odors from the enemy’s shore,
Fresh from the forest solitudes, Unchallenged of his sentry lines,— The bursting of his cypress buds, And the warm fragrance of his pines.
Ah, never braver bark and crew, Nor bolder Flag a foe to dare, Had left a wake on ocean blue Since Lion-Heart sailed Trenc-le-mer!
But little gain by that dark ground Was ours, save, sometime, freer breath For friend or brother strangely found, ’Scaped from the drear domain of death.
And little venture for the bold, Or laurel for our valiant Chief, Save some blockaded British thief, Full fraught with murder in his hold,
Caught unawares at ebb or flood, Or dull bombardment, day by day, With fort and earthwork, far away, Low couched in sullen leagues of mud.
A weary time,—but to the strong The day at last, as ever, came; And the volcano, laid so long, Leaped forth in thunder and in flame!
“Man your starboard battery!” Kimberly shouted;— The ship, with her hearts of oak, Was going, ’mid roar and smoke, On to victory; None of us doubted, No, not our dying— Farragut’s Flag was flying!