Ne'er had a scene of beauty smiled
On placid waters 'neath the sun,
Like that on Hampton's watery plain,
The fatal morn the fight begun.
Far toward the silvery Sewell shores,
Below the guns of Craney Isle,
Were seen our fleet advancing fast,
Beneath the sun's auspicious smile.

Oh, fatal sight! the hostile hordes
Of Newport camp spread dire alarms:
The Cumberland for fight prepares--
The fierce marines now rush to arms.
The Merrimac, strong cladded o'er,
In quarters close begins her fire,
Nor fears the rushing hail of shot,
And deadly missiles swift and dire;
But, rushing on 'mid smoke and flame,
And belching thunder long and loud,
Salutes the ship with bow austere,
And then withdraws in wreaths of cloud.

The work is done. The frigate turns
In agonizing, doubtful poise--
She sinks, she sinks! along the deck
Is heard a shrieking, wailing noise.
Engulfed beneath those placid waves
Disturbed by battle's onward surge,
The crew is gone; the vessel sleeps,
And whistling bombshells sing her dirge.

The battle still is raging fierce:
The Congress, "high and dry" aground,
Maintains in vain her boasted power,
For now the gunboats flock around,
With "stars and bars" at mainmast reared,
And pour their lightning on the main,
While Merrimac, approaching fast
Sends forth her shell and hot-shot rain.

Meantime the Jamestown, gallant boat,
Engages strong redoubts at land--
While Patrick Henry glides along,
To board the Congress, still astrand.
This done, we turn intently on
The Minnesota, which replies,
With whizzing shell to Teuser's gun,
Whose booming cleaves the distant skies.
The naval combat sounds anew;
The hostile fleets are not withdrawn,
Though night is closing earth and sea
In twilight's pale and mystic dawn.
Strange whistling noises fill the air;
The powdered smoke looks dark as night,
And deadly, lurid flames, pour forth
Their radiance on the missiles' flight;
Grand picture on the noisy waves!
The breezy zephyrs onward roam,
And echoing volleys float afar,
Disturbing Neptune's coral home.
The victory's ours, and let the world
Record Buchanan's[1] name with pride;
The crew is brave, the banner bright,
That ruled the day when Hutter[2] died.

[1] Commander of the "Merrimac."

[2] Midshipman on the "Patrick Henry."

Macon Daily Telegraph.

Is This a Time to Dance?

The breath of evening' sweeps the plain,
And sheds its perfume in the dell,
But on its wings are sounds of pain,
Sad tones that drown the echo's swell;
And yet we hear a mirthful call,
Fair pleasure smiles with beaming glance,
Gay music sounds in the joyous hall:
Oh God! is this a time to dance?

Sad notes, as if a spirit sighed,
Float from the crimson battle-plain,
As if a mighty spirit cried
In awful agony and pain:
Our friends we know there suffering lay,
Our brothers, too, perchance,
And in reproachful accents say,
Loved ones, is this a time to dance?

Oh, lift your festal robes on high!
The human gore that flows around
Will stain their hues with crimson dye;
And louder let your music sound
To drown the dying warrior's cry!
Let sparkling wine your joy enhance
Forget that blood has tinged its dye,
And quicker urge the maniac dance.

But stop! the floor beneath your feet
Gives back a coffin's hollow moan,
And every strain of music sweet,
Wafts forth a dying soldier's groan.
Oh, sisters! who have brothers dear
Exposed to every battle's chance,
Brings dark Remorse no forms of fear,
To fright you from the heartless dance?

Go, fling your festal robes away!
Go, don the mourner's sable veil!
Go, bow before your God, and pray!
If yet your prayers may aught avail.
Go, face the fearful form of Death!
And trembling meet his chilling glance,
And then, for once, with truthful breath,
Answer, Is this a time to dance?

"The Maryland Line."