Classic Poem

There was war with England, desperate news!
Along the Rhode Island shore
The great ship Orpheus kept up her cruise,
Looking for prizes of war.
From Point Judith Point to Beaver Tail
And over to Newport and back did she sail,
No matter what weather or how blew the gale,
With lookout behind and before.

'Twas a stormy time. A heavy ground swell:
Rolled in and broke on the coast,
And on the beaches it thundering fell,
But still she kept to her post.
And after one thick and foggy night,
Through a rift in the cloud in the dawning light,
There was the quarry, just in sight,
Faint and white as a ghost.

There, barely seen, was the Yankee craft
For which had been guarded the mouth of the Bay;
And her cargo they knew would furnish a draught
Of the best that is shipped from the Bay of Biscay.
But how did it happen? how did she glide
Past the Orpheus watch? With the fog to hide
She had sailed up the Bay on the turn of the tide,
While becalmed the Orpheus lay.

She had passed her! The Captain shouted with rage,
And gave orders to put to the chase.
And what good luck did the Yankee engage,
For there was Newport, right in face,
Which could she gain, she was safe and sound;
Or Bristol has good harbor ground;
And the Captain vented his wrath profound,
And righted his ship for the race.

How she sailed, the gallant little brig!
She caught each breath of the morning wind
And forged ahead, while the heavier rig
Of the Orpheus slowly followed behind.
And the Captain shouted with might and main,
A health to King George if the prize we gain,
From the best of the wine she doth contain.
Each man shall choose to his mind!

Then went up a shout from fore and aft,
And the Orpheus stood with each rope hauled taut,
And each eye scanned the little craft
As the great white sails the fresh breeze caught,
And the Yankee went staggering on in fright.
A few moments more, and with safety in sight
She turned to the left instead of the right,
Instead of starboard to port.

What a shout the Orpheus crew did shout!
She takes the West Passage! she's ours! they cried.
Before she makes Bristol, without a doubt
We shall sail her down, and the prize divide.
And the chase grew hot, and the Orpheus gained;
Her guns were in order and fully trained.
She is ours! they cried; it but remained
To near her for one broadside.

Past Little Neck Beach, past Whale Rock on the west,
With every stitch of her canvas spread,
Past Dickens's Reef, and sailing her best,
The gallant little Yankee fled.
But the Englishmen eyed her with satisfied eyes,
Here is Westquag Beach, they computed her size.
We are gaining fast, and will take the prize
Off the Bounet, they said.

When lo—Of all fools, cried the Captain then,
Look what she is doing! No tack that last.
They will-run the brig ashore, my men;
They are going to beach her! All aghast
They watched her plunge through the roaring sea,
While the waves dashed round her in frantic glee,
And washed her decks, while the spray flew free,
Till her bows in the sand stuck fast.

So the brig was saved from the enemy's hand,
The brave little brig that was called the Wampoa;
And most of the cargo was got safe to land,
Spite of all the great Orpheus could do.
For she opened fire, and blazed away,
And the Wampoa was burned on the beach, they say,
But her cargo made merry for many a day,
While the tale was told anew.