Part 12 (1/2)

Ole Uncle S. sez he, ”I guess His love of right,” sez he, ”Hangs by a rotten fibre o' cotton: There's natur' in J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me!”

The South says, ”_Poor folks down!_” John, An, ”_All men up!_” say we,-- White, yaller, black, an' brown, John: Now which is your idee?

Ole Uncle S. sez he, ”I guess, John preaches wal,” sez he; ”But, sermon thru, an' come to _du_, Why, there's the old J. B.

A crowdin' you an' me!”

Shall it be love, or hate, John?

It's you thet's to decide; Ain't _your_ bonds held by Fate, John, Like all the world's beside?

Ole Uncle S. sez he, ”I guess Wise men forgive,” sez he, ”But not forget; an' some time yet Thet truth may strike J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me!”

G.o.d means to make this land, John, Clear thru, from sea to sea, Believe an' understand, John, The _wuth_ o' bein' free.

Ole Uncle S. sez he, ”I guess, G.o.d's price is high,” sez he; ”But nothin' else than wut He sells Wears long, an' thet J. B.

May larn, like you an' me!”

THE c.u.mBERLAND

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

March 8, 1862 _The ”c.u.mberland” was sunk by the iron-clad rebel ram ”Merrimac,”

going down with her colors flying, and firing even as the water rose over the gunwale._

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, On board of the c.u.mberland, sloop-of-war; And at times from the fortress across the bay The alarum of drums swept past, Or a bugle blast From the camp on the sh.o.r.e.

Then far away to the south uprose A little feather of snow-white smoke, And we knew that the iron s.h.i.+p of our foes Was steadily steering its course To try the force Of our ribs of oak.

Down upon us heavily runs, Silent and sullen, the floating fort; Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, And leaps the terrible death, With fiery breath, From each open port.

We are not idle, but send her straight Defiance back in a full broadside!

As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, Rebounds our heavier hail From each iron scale Of the monster's hide.

”Strike your flag!” the rebel cries, In his arrogant old plantation strain.

”Never!” our gallant Morris replies; ”It is better to sink than to yield!”

And the whole air pealed With the cheers of our men.

Then, like a kraken huge and black, She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp!

Down went the c.u.mberland all a wrack, With a sudden shudder of death, And the cannon's breath For her dying gasp.

Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, Still floated our flag at the mainmast head.

Lord, how beautiful was Thy day!

Every waft of the air Was a whisper of prayer, Or a dirge for the dead.

Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas!

Ye are at peace in the troubled stream; Ho! brave land! with hearts like these, Thy flag, that is rent in twain, Shall be one again, And without a seam!

KEARNEY AT SEVEN PINES EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN