SCHLEY AT SANTIAGO. 



W. II. NELSON. 



The sun which gilded Luzon's hills 



And lit Manila's wave 

 Smiles sweet on Cuba's groves of palm 



And the Spaniards' sea-swept grave. 

 The smoking thunderbolts, which fell 



From Philippines' blue sky, 

 Now blast the haughty sons of Spain, 



Hot from the hand of Schley. 



Out from the harbor's granite jaws 



Comes the squadron of the Don, 

 Theresa, Vizcaya, the Almirante, 



And the Christobal Colon. 

 See from our flagship the signal fly, 



" Close on the escaping foe." 

 Each man steps instant to his place, 



In turret, aloft, below. 



The raging funnels leeward trail 



Their black plumes on the breeze, 

 While " west by north " each helmsman 

 steers 



His ship through boiling seas. 

 The fleeing Spaniards train their guns, 



And fire them quick and fast; 

 But high and wild their harmless shells 



Go innocently past. 



Ha ! how the Brooklyn's thunders roar, 



And the Texas' lightnings flash; 

 Hear the Iowa's ponderous missiles scream 



And the Oregon's broadsides crash! 

 The Indiana's turrets smoke, 



The Gloucester's muzzles flame, 

 And from on high the fighting-tops 



Join vengeful in the game. 



Beneath our iron hail go down 



The Pluton and Furor, 

 The Almirante, a helpless wreck, 



Is run upon the shore. 

 The huge Theresa follows next, 



On fire from stem to stern, 

 And while our ships go flying by, 



The Dons leave theirs to burn. 



The proud Vizcaya crowds all steam 



To get beyond our reach, 

 But, like the others blazing, turns 



To die upon the beach. 

 And now of all the Spaniards' ships 



Sails one away alone, 

 Afraid to fight, too slow for flight, 



The Christobal Colon. 



Useless her vaunted strength and speed, 



Vain her attempt to fly, 

 For faster yet the Brooklyn sails, 



Bearing the Victor, Schley. 

 Beside the flagship in the chase, 



And giving gun for gun, 

 From broadside, turret, fighting-top, 



Sails the fierce Oregon. 



Full many a fadeless wreath was won 



That Sabbath in July, 

 But brightest, greenest of them all, 



Adorns the brow of Schley. 

 Official craft may strive to rob 



The hero of his crown, 

 But all the. people know the truth, 



His glory is their own. 



