Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
America: Vols. XXV–XXIX. 1876–79.
Plowden Halsey
By Caroline Frances Orne (1818–1905)(Excerpt)
L
Honor to his hero soul!
Tell the old and noble story,
Wreathe his name with fresher glory,
As the ages roll.
Lay a British man-of-war;
By her force our troops annoying,
And our commerce still destroying,
Driving it afar.
Sinking down her hull beneath,
Screw the magazine tremendous,
Whose explosive force stupendous
Scatters all in death?
With the red flush on his cheek;
And his slender form grew stately:
All around him wondered greatly,
As they heard him speak.
“Some heart must the peril brave.
Never say that fear appalls me.
Let me go; my country calls me,
Honored, if I save.
Life has higher power to bless.
Let me go; and, even if failing,
Take this comfort mid bewailing,—
Noble failure is success.”
Oh, the night was wild and stormy!
Shrouding mists came closely down;
Thick the murky air was glooming,
And the sullen waves were booming;
Dark the tempest’s frown.
Strong hands bent the springing oar;
Died away the friendly voices,
Hushed were all the murmured noises;
Died the lights on shore.
Rowing close, the youth they left;
From the peril still unshrinking,
In the fatal engine sinking,
Under-waves he cleft.
Down the darkness driven aslope;
Comrades, mid the wild commotion,
Watched the deed of stern devotion
Fearful, yet with hope.
Lights are hurrying from below!
Peals the alarm-gun! Men are leaping
Into the boats! With swift oars sweeping
Out, to seize the foe.
Have they won the fearful prize?
Louder than the pealing thunder,
Bursting all the waves asunder,
Flaming on the skies,
Vast and hollow is the square
Where the many boats were sailing,
And the awful light is paling,
And no boats are there!
Lashing furious to the shore;
And the storm-rage grows intenser,
And the darkness gathers denser,
Denser than before.
Vainly do his comrades row
All the night. O night appalling!
Irresponsive to their calling,
Plowden sleeps below.