“Then traitor come! as black revenge excites, Extinguish all our claims with all my lights! But keen remorse, which vengeful furies lead, Will act her part for this inhuman deed.
How will her vultures on your vitals prey! How will her stings our every death repay!— O nature! is all sympathy a jest; Art thou a stranger to the human breast?
Has manly prowess quit the abandon'd stage, Are midnight plots the order of the age? “Where proud New-London holds her flaming guide To steer Decatur through the darksome tide,
I stay too long! what station can I find To shake distraction from a tortured mind! “Then, traitor, come! your dark attack begin, Renown'd inventor of the black machine:
But mark!— for when some future poet tells, Or some historian on the subject dwells, No word of praise shall meet the listening ear, Disgustful story, to repeat or hear —
Was you, an infant, to a mother press'd, Or did ferocious tigers give the breast — Did nature in some angry moment plan Some fierce hyena to degrade the man?
Resolve me quick, for doubtful while I stay These dark torpedoes may be on their way. Does nature thus her heaviest curse impart And will she give such countenance to art?—
She gave you all that rancor could bestow, She lent her magic from the world below; She gave you all that madness could propose, And all her malice in your bosom glows;
She gave you sulphur, charcoal, nitre join'd: She gave you not — a great and generous mind.” So spoke the knight, and slamm'd the door, And thus went on, with feelings sore:
“I relish not torpedo war:— Die when I will, or where I may, I would not choose so short a way: These twenty nights I did my best
To shut my eyes, and take my rest, But drowsy Morpheus might as well Upon the main mast try his spell. No potion from the poppy's leaf
Can close my lids;— and, to be brief, This Fulton, with his dashing plans, Distracts my head, my heart unmans: And, every night, I have my fears
Of such infernal engineers; Who, when I sup, or could I sleep Might row their wherry through the deep, And screw their engine to the keel,
And blow us — where there's no appeal; No question how, or where we died, But how we lived, and how applied The little sense our heads contain
To save our souls, and live again. “They, who support torpedo plans Should have no plaudit for their pains; Should be employ'd on dark designs,
Explorers of peruvian mines; Such have not felt the patriot glow, A feeling they could never know: For treasons they were surely made,
Have princes slain and kings betray'd.— Ye powers above! and must I wait Till these prevail in every state, Till pale disease, or shivering age
Drives such false patriots from the stage! “The chaplain said he heard me snore, But many a fib he told before; And if I snored, I'm satisfied
Twas when my eyes were open wide. “Torpedoes! who contrived the word? Torpedoes! worse than gun or sword! They are a mode of naval war
We cannot have a relish for:— In all the chronicles I read Of former times, they nothing said Of such a horrible machine
That would disgrace an algerine, And only yankees would employ, Not to distress, but to destroy. “What human eye, without dismay
Can see torpedo-lightning's play? What mortal heart, but dreads a foe That fights unseen from fields below! “What passion must that heart inspire
That dives the sea, to deal in fire, What can he fear, I trembling ask Who undertakes the daring task? “With engines of perdition spread,
Amazed, I see the ocean's bed! And find with rage, regret, despair, I have no power to meet them there! “Alack! my nerves are on the rack —
They're hammering at the garboard streak! Some yankee dog is near the keel! Ho, sailors give the ship a heel: Go, chaplain, to the starboard chains
And ask the rascal what he means? Who knows but Fulton's self is there With all his dark infernal gear: Who knows but he has fix'd his screws,
And left a match, to fire the fuze — Who knows, but in this very hour, The Ramillies will be no more! Will only live in empty fame,
And I, myself, be but a name! “Should the torpedo take effect, Her carcass will be worse than wreck'd; In scatter'd fragments to the sky
This ship of ships will clattering fly: And then — ah, chaplain!— ah, what then! Where will I be, and all my men? And where will you a lodging find,
A traveller on a gale of wind! And where will be the pretty maid That sweeps my floor and makes my bed? Oh Fanny, Fanny! must we part?—
Torpedoes!— I am sick at heart!— How will the flames those lips deface! How will they spoil that blooming face! How will they scorch your auburn hair —?
— You'll have your plagues, and I my share. And must I all my fears impart; And do these guns my ship ensure? And must I ask my fluttering heart
If on these decks I stand secure? “Do, Fanny, go and boil some tea: Come hither, love, and comfort me: A glass of wine! my spirits sink!
The last perhaps that I shall drink!— Or go — unlock the brandy case And let us have a dram a piece;— No matter if your nose is red,
We shall be sober when we're dead. “In fancy's view the mine is sprung, The rudder from the stern unhung, My valiant sailors torn asunder,
The ship herself a clap of thunder, From fathoms down, a deadly blast Unbolts the keel, unsteps the mast, While Fulton, with a placid grin
Exulting, views the infernal scene! The sails are vanish'd, tack and clue, The rigging burnt, by lord knows who, The star that glitter'd on my breast
Is gone to Davy Jones's chest; The glorious ensign of st. George, Of Spain the dread, of France the scourge, Is from the staff, unpitied, torn
And for a cloak by satan worn: The Lion mounted on the prow, To awe the subject sea below With flames that Lion is oppress'd —
They will not spare the royal beast.— O vengeance! why does vengeance sleep? The yards are scatter'd o'er the deep, Our guns are buried in the seas,
And thus concludes the Ramillies! “The world, I think, can witness bear My name was never stain'd by fear: At least the british fleet can say
I never shunn'd the face of clay: But Fulton's black, infernal art — Has stamp'd me — coward — to the heart! “When Nelson met the spanish fleet,
And every pulse for conquest beat, At Nelson's side I had my stand; When Nelson fell I took command: Not Etna's self, with all her flames —
Vesuvius — such description claims; Not Hecla, in her wildest rage, Does with such fires the heavens engage, As on that day, in mourning clad,
Was thunder'd from the Trinidad.
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