Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee,
Even as our outward aspects;—thou dost rise
And set in glory. Fare thee well!
I ne’er shall see thee more. As my first glance
Of love and wonder was for thee, then take
My latest look: thou wilt not beam on one
To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been
Of a more fatal nature. He is gone!”
Thursday, March 26. We discovered a sail this afternoon on our starboard bow, and stood down for her. As our noble ship, with her heavy batteries frowning death, neared her, she run up the American ensign at her peak. We captured her in mimic war. She proved to be the Balæna, a whale-ship, or, as our sailors term it, a spouter, from New Bedford. She had been out five months. She had two men at her main, two at her fore, and one at her mizen top, looking out for whales. Success to them. I would as soon seek a tree-top in a thunder-storm. The mimic fight took place after she had shown her colors, and was gone through with merely to accustom our men to some of the evolutions of a real engagement.
Our crew is composed in too great a proportion of young men. They have not that solidity and strength of muscle which our heavy guns require. But they are very active, and would pour themselves, as boarders, in a living tide on the enemy. Our best crews are those enlisted after war has been declared. Thousands who now seek our civil marine, would in that event rush to our armed decks.