I.

Never, while such as ye are in the breach, Oh! brothers, sons, and Southrons--never! never! Shall the foul enemy your city reach! For souls and hearts are eager with endeavor; And God's own sanction on your cause, makes holy Each arm that strikes for home, however lowly!-- And ye shall conquer by the rolling deep!-- And ye shall conquer on the embattled steep!-- And ye shall see Leviathan go down A hundred fathoms, with a horrible cry Of drowning wretches, in their agony-- While Slaughter wades in gore along the sands, And Terror flies with pleading, outstretched hands, All speechless, but with glassy-staring eyes-- Flying to Fate--and fated as he flies;-- Seeking his refuge in the tossing wave, That gives him, when the shark has fed, a grave!