A Utilitarian View Of The _Monitor’S_ Fight

Plain be the phrase, yet apt the verse, More ponderous than nimble; For since grimed War here laid aside His Orient pomp, ’twould ill befit Overmuch to ply The rhyme’s barbaric cymbal.

Hail to victory without the gaud Of glory; zeal that needs no fans Of banners; plain mechanic power Plied cogently in War now placed— Where War belongs— Among the trades and artisans.

Yet this was battle, and intense— Beyond the strife of fleets heroic; Deadlier, closer, calm ’mid storm; No passion; all went on by crank, Pivot, and screw, And calculations of caloric.

Needless to dwell; the story’s known. The ringing of those plates on plates Still ringeth round the world— The clangor of that blacksmiths’ fray. The anvil-din Resounds this message from the Fates:

War shall yet be, and to the end; But war-paint shows the streaks of weather; War yet shall be, but warriors Are now but operatives; War’s made Less grand than Peace, And a singe runs through lace and feather.