Midway she stems the raging stream,
    And feels the rapids’ thundering stroke;
  Now buried deep, now whirl’d on high,
    She struggles with her awful doom,—­
  With frantic speed now hurries by
    To find a watery tomb.

  Lo, poised upon the topmost surge,
    She shudders o’er the dark abyss;
  The foaming waters round her hiss
    And hoarse waves ring her funeral dirge;
  The chafing billows round her close;
    But ere her burning planks are riven,
  Shoots up one ruddy spout of fire,—­
    Her last farewell to earth and heaven. 
  Down, down to endless night she goes! 
    So may the traitor’s hope expire,
  So perish all our country’s foes!

  Destruction’s blazing star
    Has vanish’d from our sight;
  The thunderbolt of war
    Is quench’d in endless night;
  Nor sight, nor sound of fear
  Startles the listening ear;
    Naught but the torrent’s roar,
  The dull, deep, heavy sound,
  From out the dark profound,
    Echoes from shore to shore. 
  Where late the cry of blood
    Rang on the midnight air,
  The mournful lapsing of the flood,
  The wild winds in the lonely wood,
    Claim sole dominion there.

  To thee, high-hearted Drew! 
    And thy victorious band
  Of heroes tried and true
  A nation’s thanks are due. 
    Defender of an injured land! 
  Well hast thou taught the dastard foe
    That British honour never yields
  To democratic influence, low,
    The glory of a thousand fields.

  Justice to traitors, long delay’d,
    This night was boldly dealt by thee;
  The debt of vengeance thou hast paid,
    And may the deed immortal be. 
  Thy outraged country shall bestow
    A lasting monument of fame,
  The highest meed of praise below—­
    A British patriot’s deathless name!

CHAPTER XXIV

THE WHIRLWIND

[For the poem that heads this chapter, I am indebted to my brother, Mr. Strickland, of Douro, C.W.]

  Dark, heavy clouds were gathering in the west,
    Wrapping the forest in funereal gloom;
  Onward they roll’d, and rear’d each livid crest,
    Like Death’s murk shadows frowning o’er earth’s tomb. 
  From out the inky womb of that deep night
    Burst livid flashes of electric flame. 
  Whirling and circling with terrific might,
    In wild confusion on the tempest came. 
  Nature, awakening from her still repose,
    Shudders responsive to the whirlwind’s shock,
  Feels at her might heart convulsive throes,
    And all her groaning forests to earth’s bosom rock.

  But hark!—­What means that hollow, rushing sound,
    That breaks the death-like stillness of the morn? 
  Red forked lightnings fiercely glare around,
    Sharp, crashing thunders on the winds are borne,
  And see yon spiral column, black as night,
    Rearing triumphantly its wreathing form;
  Ruin’s abroad, and through the murky light—­
    Drear desolation marks the spirit of the storm.