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THE EAGLE AND VULTURE
by Read, Thomas Buchanan [1822-1872]

In Cherbourg Roads the pirate lay
One morn in June, like a beast at bay,
Feeling secure in the neutral port,
Under the guns of the Frenchman's fort;
A thieving vulture; a coward thing;
Sheltered beneath a despot's wing.
But there outside, in the calm blue bay,
Our ocean-eagle, the Kearsarge, lay;
Lay at her ease on the Sunday morn,
Holding the Corsair ship in scorn;
With captain and crew in the might of their right,
Willing to pray, but more eager to fight.
Four bells are struck, and this thing of night,
Like a panther, crouching with fierce affright,
Must
leap from his cover, and, come what may,
Must
fight for his life, or steal away!
So, out of the port with his braggart air,
With flaunting flags, sailed the proud Corsair.
The Cherbourg cliffs were all alive
With lookers-on, like a swarming hive;
While compelled to do what he dared not shirk,
The pirate went to his desperate work;
And Europe's tyrants looked on in glee,
As they thought of our Kearsarge sunk in the sea.
But our little bark smiled back at them
A smile of contempt, with that Union gem,
The American banner, far floating and free,
Proclaiming her champions were out on the sea;
Were out on the sea, and abroad on the land,
Determined to win under God's command.
Down came the vulture; our eagle sat still,
Waiting to strike with her iron-clad bill;
Convinced by the glow of his glorious cause,
He could crumple his foe in the grasp of his claws.
"Clear the decks," then said Winslow, words measured and slow;
"Point the guns, and prepare for the terrible blow;
And whatever the fate to ourselves may be,
We will sink in the ocean this pest of the sea."
The decks were all cleared, and the guns were all manned,
Awaiting to meet this Atlantic brigand;
When, lo! roared a broadside
; the ship of the thief
Was torn, and wept blood in that moment of grief.
Another! another! another! And still
The broadsides went in with a hearty good will,
Till the pirate reeled wildly, as staggering and drunk,
And down to his own native regions he sunk.
[526]
Down, down, forty fathoms beneath the blue wave,
And the hopes of old Europe lie in the same grave;
While Freedom, more firm, stands upon her own sod,
And for heroes like Winslow is shouting, "Thank God!"
Thomas Buchanan Read.

Source: Project Gutenberg

Source: Project Gutenberg