Complete Poetical Works. Bret Harte

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           How we laughed!—my mate and I,—

             On the "Bon Homme Richard's" deck,

           As we saw that convoy fly

             Like a snow-squall, till each fleck

           Melted in the twilight shadows of the coast-line, speck by speck;

           And scuffling back to shore

             The Scarborough bailiffs sped,

           As the "Richard" with a roar

             Of her cannon round the Head,

           Crossed her royal yards and signaled to her consort: "Chase ahead"

           But the devil seize Landais

             In that consort ship of France!

           For the shabby, lubber way

             That he worked the "Alliance"

           In the offing,—nor a broadside fired save to our mischance!—

           When tumbling to the van,

             With his battle-lanterns set,

           Rose the burly Englishman

             'Gainst our hull as black as jet,—

           Rode the yellow-sided "Serapis," and all alone we met!

           All alone, though far at sea

             Hung his consort, rounding to;

           All alone, though on our lee

             Fought our "Pallas," stanch and true!

           For the first broadside around us both a smoky circle drew:

           And, like champions in a ring,

             There was cleared a little space—

           Scarce a cable's length to swing—

             Ere we grappled in embrace,

           All the world shut out around us, and we only face to face!

           Then awoke all hell below

             From that broadside, doubly curst,

           For our long eighteens in row

             Leaped the first discharge and burst!

           And on deck our men came pouring, fearing their own guns the worst.

           And as dumb we lay, till, through

             Smoke and flame and bitter cry,

           Hailed the "Serapis:" "Have you

             Struck your colors?" Our reply,

           "We have not yet begun to fight!" went shouting to the sky!

           Roux of Brest, old fisher, lay

             Like a herring gasping here;

           Bunker of Nantucket Bay,

             Blown from out the port, dropped sheer

           Half a cable's length to leeward; yet we faintly raised a cheer

           As with his own right hand

             Our Commodore made fast

           The foeman's head-gear and

             The "Richard's" mizzen-mast,

           And in that death-lock clinging held us there from first to last!

           Yet the foeman, gun on gun,

             Through the "Richard" tore a road,

           With his gunners' rammers run

             Through our ports at every load,

           Till clear the blue beyond us through our yawning timbers showed.

           Yet with entrails torn we clung

             Like the Spartan to our fox,

           And on deck no coward tongue

             Wailed the enemy's hard knocks,

           Nor that all below us trembled like a wreck upon the rocks.

           Then a thought rose in my brain,

             As through Channel mists the sun.

           From our tops a fire like rain

             Drove below decks every one

           Of the enemy's ship's company to hide or work a gun:

           And that thought took shape as I

             On the "Richard's" yard lay out,

           That a man might do and die,

             If the doing brought about

           Freedom for his home and country, and his messmates' cheering shout!

           Then I crept out in the dark

             Till I hung above the hatch

           Of the "Serapis,"—a mark

             For her marksmen!—with a match

           And a hand-grenade, but lingered just a moment more to snatch

           One last look at sea and sky!

             At the lighthouse on the hill!

           At the harvest-moon on high!

             And our pine flag fluttering still!

           Then turned and down her yawning throat I launched that devil's pill!

           Then a blank was all between

             As the flames around me spun!

           Had I fired the magazine?

             Was the victory lost or won?

           Nor knew I till the fight was o'er but half my work was done:

           For I lay among the dead

             In the cockpit of our foe,

           With a roar above my head,—

             Till a trampling to and fro,

           And a lantern showed my mate's face, and I knew what now you know!

           Act first, scene first.  A study.  Of a kind

             Half cell, half salon, opulent yet grave;

           Rare books, low-shelved, yet far above the mind

             Of common man to compass or to crave;

           Some slight relief of pamphlets that inclined

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