Beyond the bar the land-wind dies,
  The prows becharmed at anchor swim: 
A summer night; the stars withdrawn look down—­
    Fair eve of battle grim. 
The sentries pace, bonetas glide;
  Below, the sleeping sailor swing,
  And it their dreams to quarters spring,
Or cheer their flag, or breast a stormy tide.

But drums are beat:  Up anchor all!
  The triple lines steam slowly on;
Day breaks, and through the sweep of decks each man
    Stands coldly by his gun—­
As cold as it.  But he shall warm—­
  Warm with the solemn metal there,
  And all its ordered fury share,
In attitude a gladiatorial form.

The Admiral—­yielding the the love
  Which held his life and ship so dear—­
Sailed second in the long fleet’s midmost line;
    Yet thwarted all their care: 
He lashed himself aloft, and shone
  Star of the fight, with influence sent
  Throughout the dusk embattlement;
And so they neared the strait and walls of stone.

No sprintly fife as in the field,
  The decks were hushed like fanes in prayer;
Behind each man a holy angel stood—­
    He stood, though none was ’ware. 
Out spake the forts on either hand,
  Back speak the ships when spoken to,
  And set their flags in concert true,
And On and in! is Farragut’s command.

But what delays? ’mid wounds above
  Dim buoys give hint of death below—­
Sea-ambuscades, where evil art had aped
    Hecla that hides in snow. 
The centre-van, entangled, trips;
  The starboard leader holds straight on: 
  A cheer for the Tecumseh!—­nay,
Before their eyes the turreted ship goes down!

The fire redoubles, While the fleet
  Hangs dubious—­ere the horror ran—­
The Admiral rushes to his rightful place—­
    Well met! apt hour and man!—­
Closes with peril, takes the lead,
  His action is a stirring call;
  He strikes his great heart through them all,
And is the genius of their daring deed.

The forts are daunted, slack their fire,
  Confounded by the deadlier aim
And rapid broadsides of the speeding fleet,
    And fierce denouncing flame. 
Yet shots from four dark hulls embayed
  Come raking through the loyal crews,
  Whom now each dying mate endues
With his last look, anguished yet undismayed.

A flowering time to guilt is given,
  And traitors have their glorying hour;
O late, but sure, the righteous Paramount comes—­
    Palsy is on their power! 
So proved it with the rebel keels,
  The strong-holds past:  assailed, they run;
  The Selma strikes, and the work is done: 
The dropping anchor the achievement seals.

But no, she turns—­the Tennessee! 
  The solid Ram of iron and oak,
Strong as Evil, and bold as Wrong, though lone—­
    A pestilence in her smoke. 
The flag-ship is her singled mark,
  The wooden Hartford.  Let her come;
  She challenges the planet of Doom,
And naught shall save her—­not her iron bark.