THE CUMBERLAND.

anchor in Hampton Roads we

lay,

On board of the Cumberland, 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 shore.

Then far away to the south uprose

A little feather of snow-white smoke, And we knew that the iron ship 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 Cumberland 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!

A DAY OF SUNSHINE.

GIFT of God! O perfect day:
Whereon shall no man work, but

play;

Whereon it is enough for me,

Not to be doing, but to be!

Through every fibre of my brain,
Through every nerve, through every vein,
I feel the electric thrill, the touch
Of life, that seems almost too much.

I hear the wind among the trees
Playing celestial symphonies;
I see the branches downward bent,
Like keys of some great instrument.

And over me unrolls on high

The splendid scenery of the sky,
Where through a sapphire sea the sun
Sails like a golden galleon,

Towards yonder cloud-land in the West, Towards yonder Islands of the Blest, Whose steep sierra far uplifts

Its craggy summits white with drifts.

Blow, winds and waft through all the

rooms

The snow-flakes of the cherry-blooms! Blow, winds! and bend within my reach The fiery blossoms of the peach!

O Life and Love! O happy throng
Of thoughts, whose only speech is song!
O heart of man! canst thou not be
Blithe as the air is, and as free?

WEARINESS.

LITTLE feet! that such long

years

Must wander on through hopes and fears,

Must ache and bleed beneath your load ; I, nearer to the wayside inn

Where toil shall cease and rest begin,
Am weary, thinking of your road!

O little hands! that, weak or strong,
Have still to serve or rule so long,

Have still so long to give or ask;
I, who so much with book and pen
Have toiled among my fellow-men,

Am weary, thinking of your task.

O little hearts! that throb and beat
With such impatient, feverish heat,

Such limitless and strong desires; Mine, that so long has glowed and burned, With passions into ashes turned,

Now covers and conceals its fires.

O little souls! as pure and white
And crystalline as rays of light