At once the good Hartford was blazing,
Below, aloft, fore and aft.
"We are lost!" "No, no; we are moving!"
Away whirled the crackling raft.
The fire was soon quenched. One last broadside
We gave to the surly fort;
For above us the rebel gunboats
Were wheeling like devils at sport.
And into our vacant station
Had glided a bulky form;
'Twas Craven's stout Brooklyn, demanding
Her share of the furious storm.
We could hear the shot of Saint Philip
Ring on her armor of chain,
And the crash of her answering broadside,
Taking and giving again.
We could hear the low growl of Craven,
And Lowry's voice clear and calm,
While they swept off the rebel ramparts
As clean as your open palm.
Then ranging close under our quarter,
Out burst from the smoky fogs
The queen of the waves, the Varuna,
The ship of bold Charley Boggs.
He waved his blue cap as he passed us;
The blood of his glorious race,
Of Lawrence, the hero, was burning
Once more in a living face.
Right and left flashed his heavy pieces,
Rams, gunboats—it mattered not;
Wherever a rebel flag floated
Was a target for his shot.
All burning and sinking around him
Lay five of the foe; but he,
The victor, seemed doomed with the vanquished,
When along dashed gallant Lee.
And he took up the bloody conflict,
And so well his part he bore,
That the river ran fire behind him,
And glimmered from shore to shore.