O thoughts ineffable! O visions blest! Though worthless our conceptions all of Thee, Yet shall Thy shadowed image fill our breast. And waft its homage to Thy Deity. God! thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar, Thus seek thy presence--Being wise and good! Midst Thy vast works admire, obey, adore; And when the tongue is eloquent no more The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude.
The boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but him had fled; The flame that lit the battle's wreck Shone round him o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm; A creature of heroic blood, A proud, though childlike form.
The flames roll'd on--he would not go Without his father's word; That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud: "Say, father, say If yet my task is done?" He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son.
"Speak, father!" once again he cried, "If I may yet be gone!" And but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames roll'd on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair; And looked from that lone post of death In still, yet brave despair.
And shouted but once more aloud, "My father! must I stay?" While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way.
They wrapt the ship in splendor wild, They caught the flag on high, And streamed above the gallant child, Like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder sound-- The boy--oh! where was he? Ask of the winds that far around With fragments strewed the sea!
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, That well had borne their part-- But the noblest thing that perished there Was that young, faithful heart.
We were not many,--we who stood Before the iron sleet that day; Yet many a gallant spirit would Give half his years if he but could Have been with us at Monterey.
Now here, now there, the shot it hailed In deadly drifts of fiery spray, Yet not a single soldier quailed When wounded comrades round them wailed Their dying shout at Monterey.
And on, still on our column kept, Through walls of flame, its withering way; Where fell the dead, the living stept, Still charging on the guns which swept The slippery streets of Monterey.
The foe himself recoiled aghast, When, striking where he strongest lay, We swooped his flanking batteries past, And braving full their murderous blast, Stormed home the towers of Monterey.