A Prize

Scarcely had the blushing morning, Woo'd the waves with tender light; When the bright'ning plain adorning, A distant vessel rose in sight.

Aloft, the crouding sailors viewing Her misty sails with straining eye, In fancy now the foe subduing, A prize! a prize! exulting cry.

The boatswain's whistle loud and shrill. Shames the tardy sleeping wind: In vain our chuse-gun fires—for still The crouds her sail—we're left behind.

At length the breeze affords assistance; Right-afore the wind's our course; We clear our decks—she threats resistance, And proudly boasts superior force.

Amid her thunder boldly steering. Our batter'd ship almost a wreck, With steady courage persevering, They board, they storm her gory deck.

Her wounded Captain—life disdaining, Yet mourning o'er his gallant crew; Casts a last look on those remaining; Then strikes to save the valiant few.