Baked meats of the funeral a collection of essays, poems, speeches, histories, and banquets |
THE UNION CONVOY. |
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THE UNION CONVOY.
[January 1st, 1860.]
The night is dark and bodeful as through the gloom we sail,
And the ground-swell of the moaning sea gives warning of
the gale;
The nearest vessels of the fleet our eyes can scarce discern,
Though by their creaking cordage that some are near we
learn.
Ho! Signal-master, leap aloft, and from the topmost spar,
“The Convoy is in danger”—flash the signal fast and far!
Let us know what vessels answer to the old and honored
sign,
Count the signals reappearing in the Convoy's ordered line;
Linked in many a common fight,
And accursed be all the omens
That say we part to-night!
Bright was the glorious morning which saw the Convoy
start,
Freighted with all that human hope makes precious to the
heart;
Bright were our days of summer, while still as riches grew,
Another vessel joined us, and we hailed another crew;
A smiling heaven above us, an open path to steer,
New treasures ever dawning in the isles we drew anear—
O, peaceful was the voyage, or when we met a foe,
All struck to guard the common rights with one avenging
blow;
Flash the words in rays of light—
“What vessels of the Convoy
Part company to-night?”
Great admirals have led us, great names our records bear
Of those who shaped our destinies, and taught us how to
dare;
Great captains we have numbered—each name itself a star,
Bright as those answering signals which flash from spar to
spar!
Through many a tempest Washington has paced the heaving
deck,
And after many a battle-hour his orders cleared the wreck;—
Yea, oft beneath our gliding keels the mountain waves
have swelled,
While Jackson's hand with iron grip the foremost tiller
held.
In this dark and bodeful night,
Yet—Heaven be praised! how quickly
The signals leap to light.
Let us only keep together and in vain the waves may swell,
We shall flash the joyous signal to the Convoy—“All is
well!”
Though the skies be black with tempest and the seas run
high and fast,
While the whistling gale allows no sail to bend the groaning
mast,
Yet—so the Good Gods whisper—while the skies their
influence pour,
A common path the fleet shall steer, a common flag adore;
If mutineers would seize our ships, they shall dangle from
the spars,
And from every topmast yet shall stream the banner of the
stars!
Their radiance can eclipse;
For the Convoy knows no danger
But collision of the ships!
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