Commemorative Of A Naval Victory

Sailors there are of the gentlest breed,  Yet strong, like every goodly thing;

The discipline of arms refines,  And the wave gives tempering.  The damasked blade its beam can fling;

It lends the last grave grace:

The hawk, the hound, and sworded nobleman  In Titian's picture for a king,

Are of hunter or warrior race.

In social halls a favored guest  In years that follow victory won,

How sweet to feel your festal fame  In woman's glance instinctive thrown:  Repose is yours--your deed is known,

It musks the amber wine;

It lives, and sheds a light from storied days  Rich as October sunsets brown,

Which make the barren place to shine.

But seldom the laurel wreath is seen  Unmixed with pensive pansies dark;

There's a light and a shadow on every man  Who at last attains his lifted mark--  Nursing through night the ethereal spark.

Elate he never can be;

He feels that spirit which glad had hailed his    worth,  Sleep in oblivion.--The

Glides white through the phosphorus sea.