Down with a rush our twenty came—
The open field we passed—
And in among the hard-pressed Tenth
We set our feet at last!
Up, with a leap, sprang McIlrath,
Mud-spattered, worn and wet,
And, in an instant, there he stood
High on the parapet!
"Steady, boys! we've got 'em now—
Only a minute late!
It's all right, lads—we've got 'em whipped—
Just give 'em volleys straight!"
Then, up and down the parapet
With head erect he went,
As cool as when he sat with us
Beside our evening tent!
Not one of us, close sheltered there
Down in the trench's pen,
But felt that we would rather die
Than shame or grieve him then!
The fire so close to being quenched
In panic and defeat,
Leaped forth, by rapid volleys sped,
In one long deadly sheet!
A cheer went up along the line
As breaks the thunder-call—
But, as it rose, great God, we saw
Our gallant sergeant fall!
He sank into our outstretched arms
Dead—but immortal grown;
And Glory brightened where he fell,
And valor claimed her own!
John Jerome Rooney.
Spain had had enough. She recognized the folly of struggling further, and made overtures for peace. On August 12 a protocol was signed and hostilities ceased. Eight days later, the American squadron steamed into New York harbor.