DEWEY AT MANILA. 



W. H. NELSON. 



The stars died out o'er far Luzon, 



Faint glowed the East with coming dawn, 



Slow beat old Ocean's heart; 

 The morning's breath just stirred the palm, 

 And sweet with fragrant tropic balm, 

 Fanned with seductive, lotus calm 



The Spaniard's orient mart. , 



Within Manila's placid bay, 

 Safe riding at their anchors lay 



The ships of proud Castile; 

 While right and left, on either shore, 

 Cavite and Corregidor, 

 Like crouching lions, watched the door 



Through which a foe might steal. 



Hidden beneath the billows' breast, 

 Thick sown upon the sands, at rest, 



Lay many a treach'rous bomb; 

 From each a viewless line, asleep, 

 Stretched to the shore across the deep; 

 O'er these shall silent lightnings leap 

 May rash invading foemen sweep 



Into an instant tomb. 



Lo! as the tropic morning grew, 



In through that narrow gateway drew 



Seven gallant ships of war; 

 Grim frowned their ports with many a gun, 

 Silent their decks, as one by one, 

 Straight for the Spanish ships they run, 

 Flinging "Old Glory" to the sun; 



Stern stood each waiting tar. 



Hark! from Cavite's ramparts dun 

 Booms loudly forth a warning gun, 



The Spaniard is awake! 

 An answering flash, a vengeful thrust, 

 And upward soars a cloud of dust, 

 Smashed guns, and bones, and Spanish 

 blood, 



What ghastly wrack they make! 



And now breaks forth the battle's swell, 

 The roaring gun, and shrieking shell, 

 As all the orchestra of Hell 



Had joined in demon band; 

 The reeling ships are hid in smoke, 

 Whose dense wreaths fort and city 

 cloak, 



And shroud both sea and land. 



' The Spaniard's ships are silent now; 

 Haul off, and let the sea-breeze blow 



This blinding reek away." 

 Lo! yonder crush of blazing bulks, 

 Of battered, shot-torn, sinking hulks; 



Where is their squadron, pray? 



" Now for the forts that guard the door, 

 Cavite and Corregidor, 



Train on them each great gun." 

 And once again the thunder-sound 

 That rocks the sea and shakes the ground; 

 On ghastly ruin strewn around, 



Looks down the noonday sun. 



Who says the vikings are all dead? 

 That victory has ceased to shed 

 Her glory on the wave? 

 That Fame with Farragut is past? 



That bluff Dave Porter was the last? / 



j 



Who thinks the " military mast " 

 Carries no sailor brave? 



Hail! grand, impetuous Commodore, 

 Thou'rt blest at sea and blest ashore, 



May Heaven guard thee weli! 

 Columbia needs thee for her fleet; 

 The dying Cubans' prayers entreat 

 That thou the Dons once more mayst 

 meet. 



And give them holy hell! 



