Then a fearful struggle followed, as, to desperation spurred,
They sought in deed the triumph so falsely claimed in word.
'Twas the purpose of a moment, and the bravest of our tars
Plunged headlong in the boiling surf, amid the broken spars;
He snatched the shot-torn colours, and wound them round his arm,
Then climbed upon the deck again, and there stood safe and calm;
He paused but for a moment--it was no time to stay--
Then he leaped into the rigging that had yet survived the fray;
Higher yet he climbed and higher, till he gained a dizzy height,
Then turned and paused a moment to look down upon the fight.
Whistled wild the shots around him, as a curling, smoky wreath
Formed a cloudy shroud to hide him from the enemy beneath.
Beat his heart with proud elation as he firmly fixed his stand,
And again the colours floated as he held them in his hand.
Then a pistol deftly wielded, 'mid the battle's ceaseless blast,
Fastened there the colours firmly, as he nailed them to that mast;
Then as if to yield him glory--the smoke-clouds cleared away--
And we sent him up the loudest cheer that reach'd his ear that day,
With new-born zeal and courage, dashing fiercely to the fight,
To crown the day of battle with the triumph of the night.
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