  By HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL. [Admiral Farragut was so impressed with this irregular but spirited description of the river battle below New Orleans that he sought out the author and their acquaintance ended in a warm friendship. Brownell having expressed a desire to witness a naval conflict, Farragut took him on board the Flagship Hartford at the time of the storming of the Mobile forts, and the poet repaid the courtesy with the poem which appears elsewhere in this collection, called “The Bay Fight.”—Editor.] D Do you know of the dreary land, If land such region may seem, Where ’tis neither sea nor strand, Ocean, nor good, dry land, But the nightmare marsh of a dream? Where the Mighty River his death-road takes, ’Mid pools and windings that coil like snakes, A hundred leagues of bayous and lakes, To die in the great Gulf Stream? No coast-line clear and true, Granite and deep-sea blue, On that dismal shore you pass, Surf-worn boulder or sandy beach,— But ooze-flats as far as the eye can reach, With shallows of water-grass; Reedy Savannahs, vast and dun, Lying dead in the dim March sun; Huge, rotting trunks and roots that lie Like the blackened bones of shapes gone by, And miles of sunken morass. No lovely, delicate thing Of life o’er the waste is seen But the cayman couched by his weedy spring, And the pelican, bird unclean, Or the buzzard, flapping with heavy wing, Like an evil ghost o’er the desolate scene. Ah! many a weary day With our Leader there we lay. In the sultry haze and smoke, Tugging our ships o’er the bar, Till the spring was wasted far, Till his brave heart almost broke. For the sullen river seemed As if our intent he dreamed,— All his sallow mouths did spew and choke. Anchored we lay,—and a morn the more, To his captains and all his men Thus wrote our old commodore— (He wasn’t Admiral then):— “General Orders: Send your to’gallant masts down, Rig in each flying jib-boom! Clear all ahead for the loom Of traitor fortress and town, Or traitor fleet bearing down “In with your canvas high; We shall want no sail to fly! Top sail, foresail, spanker, and jib, (With the heart of oak in the oaken rib,) Shall serve us to win or die! “Trim every sail by the head, (So shall you spare the lead,) Lest if she ground, your ship swing round, Bows in shore, for a wreck. “On forecastle and on poop Mount guns, as best you may deem. If possible, rouse them up (For still you must bow the stream). Also hoist and secure with stops Howitzers firmly in your tops, To fire on the foe abeam. “Look well to your pumps and hose; Have water tubs fore and aft, For quenching flame in your craft, And the gun crew’s fiery thirst. See planks with felt fitted close, To plug every shot-hole tight. Stand ready to meet the worst! For, if I have reckoned aright, They will serve us shot, Both cold and hot, Freely enough to-night. “Mark well each signal I make,— (Our life-long service at stake, Sheridan’s Ride.
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