Sideward she plunges: nevermore
Shall Biscay feel
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
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.
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
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—
Dead, 'neath the Brooklyn's thunder-blast,
In one great hour.
The bannered Brooklyn! gallant crew,
And gallant Schley!
Proud is the flag his sailors flew
Along the sky.
Proud is his country: for each star
Our Union wears,
The fighting Brooklyn shows a scar—
So much he dares.
God save us war upon the seas;
But, if it slip,
Send such a chief, with men like these,
On such a ship!
Wallace Rice.