'And now the land,' said Otherė, Into a nameless sea. And there we hunted the walrus, And like the lightning's flame There were six of us all together, In two days and no more We killed of them threescore, And dragged them to the strand.’ Here Alfred, the Truth-Teller, And Othere, the old sea-captain, And to the King of the Saxons, Raising his noble head, He stretched his brown hand, and said, 'Behold this walrus-tooth!' XCI THE CUMBERLAND AT 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 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!' With the cheers of our men. Then, like a kraken huge and black, For her dying gasp. Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, 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, Shall be one again, And without a seam! XCII A DUTCH PICTURE SIMON DANZ has come home again, From cruising about with his buccaneers; He has singed the beard of the King of Spain, And carried away the Dean of Jaen And sold him in Algiers. In his house by the Maes, with its roof of tiles And weathercocks flying aloft in air, There are silver tankards of antique styles, In his tulip-garden there by the town, A smile in his grey mustachio lurks The windmills on the outermost Verge of the landscape in the haze, To him are towers on the Spanish coast With whiskered sentinels at their post, Though this is the river Maes. But when the winter rains begin, He sits and smokes by the blazing brands, And old seafaring men come in, Goat-bearded, grey, and with double chin, And rings upon their hands. They sit there in the shadow and shine Of the flickering fire of the winter night; Like those by Rembrandt of the Rhine, And they talk of their ventures lost or won, Restless at times, with heavy strides Voices mysterious far and near, Sound of the wind and sound of the sea, So he thinks he shall take to the sea again Longfellow. XCIII BARBARA FRIETCHIE Up from the meadows rich with corn, The clustered spires of Frederick stand |