Meanwhile the shapeless iron mass
Came moving o'er the wave,
As gloomy as a passing hearse,
As silent as the grave.
Her ports were closed, from stem to stern
No sign of life appeared.
We wondered, questioned, strained our eyes,
Joked,—everything but feared.
She reached our range. Our broadside rang,
Our heavy pivots roared;
And shot and shell, a fire of hell,
Against her sides we poured.
God's mercy! from her sloping roof
The iron tempest glanced,
As hail bounds from a cottage-thatch,
And round her leaped and danced;
Or, when against her dusky hull
We struck a fair, full blow,
The mighty, solid iron globes
Were crumbled up like snow.
On, on, with fast increasing speed,
The silent monster came;
Though all our starboard battery
Was one long line of flame.
She heeded not, nor gun she fired,
Straight on our bow she bore;
Through riving plank and crashing frame
Her furious way she tore.
Alas! our beautiful, keen bow,
That in the fiercest blast
So gently folded back the seas,
They hardly felt we passed!
Alas! Alas! My Cumberland,
That ne'er knew grief before,
To be so gored, to feel so deep
The tusk of that sea-boar!
Once more she backward drew a space,
Once more our side she rent;
Then, in the wantonness of hate,
Her broadside through us sent.