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By Herman Melville

The damaged gun-boats can n't wage fight

For days; so says the Commodore.

Thus no diversion can be had.

Under a sunless sky of lead

Our grim-faced boys in blacked plight

Gaze toward the ground they held before,

And then on Grant. He marks their mood,

And hails it, and will turn the same to good.

Spite all that they have undergone,

Their desperate hearts are set upon

This winter fort, this stubborn fort,

This castle of the last resort,

This Donelson.