THE THIRD DAY AT GETTYSBURG

Stand we awhile at gaze, in the Place of the Battle of Battles:High on the hill at the south, where over the fair-lying farmlandWarren keeps watch in bronze, here under the sky of the summerStand we awhile at gaze, far-scanning the roads and the ridges,Doubtful that such things were.Oh, sweet with the wafts of the wildrose,Sweet is the breath of the summer, the hushed spirit lapping and lulling!Man feels near to the kind red earth; as her nursling she draws himClose, ah close, to the fragrant warmth of her Indian bosom.Deep he drinks of life; and death is a dream in the distance.Rare is the sweet of the summer; the good world’s bounty and beautySuch as they saw and lost, who bought us our peace with their passion.Such, on the great Three Days of the great Third Year of the war-time,Lay this pleasant land, with the long South Mountain to westward;Blue these billowing hills circled it, friendly enfolded,Lucent in sun, or dark with the shadows of clouds floating over;Silvered with ghostly gray of the rains, in their soft-footed marchesMelting away and passing, and leaving the blue in the sunlight.So the farmland lay, with the yellow gleam of its wheatfields,Green of the standing corn, a-glisten in beauteous battalions,Pastures with dreaming cattle, and tawny streams where they loiter,Dark-green orchard slopes, and the small white houses of farmers.So lay the little town, with its brick-paved walks and its alleys,Garden-glimpses fair, with the faint-blue hills for a background,Over the whitewashed fences the rosy hollyhocks leaning;Fate-shadowed, sleeping town, in its listless grasp as it slumberedHolding the reins of power, the gathered reins of the roadwaysStretched to the north and south, to the northwest and northeast and southeast,Roadways half a score, in the grasp of the fate-shadowed sleeper,—Reins of power indeed, should a strong hand suddenly seize them!What strong hand should seize? Swift-reaching, and sinewed with iron,Masterful hand of Lee, great Captain, intrepid invader?Far-away cities feared. Or, haply, hand new to the wieldingOne huge host as a sword, untried in its strength or its weakness,Unknown hand of Meade, at the southward uncertainly groping?Stirred with a dream of dread was the little town as it slumbered;Sudden it started and woke.—Through the hush of the young, hot morningOne sharp shot, and another—and born was the Battle of Battles!Long had the good land lain in the sun and the rain, with its ridges,Rich broad fields for the farmer, and hills dark-fledged with the forests;Yet was the end ordained of the old earth’s writhing and travailNeither the breathing beauty of grainfields, nor wealth of the harvest,Neither the brooding charm of the wood, nor the trees for the builder;Not for these was the earth-pang; for Pain, for Pain sacrificialOffered to God; for the altar whereon Man blindly or wiselyLaid, for the Faith that was in him, his body born of a woman,Laid, in his passion of service, the life of his own blood-brother,—Even for that Altar august had the ridges and hills from aforetimeWaited, elect. So of old, under Syrian azure, and burningStars of that ancient land, grew a great Tree, branched like another;Soared to its height, and waited, elect for the Cross of all crosses.Now was arrived the hour, and the stern supreme dedication,Sealing the brow of the land for the Place of the Battle of Battles.

Stand we awhile at gaze, in the Place of the Battle of Battles:

High on the hill at the south, where over the fair-lying farmland

Warren keeps watch in bronze, here under the sky of the summer

Stand we awhile at gaze, far-scanning the roads and the ridges,

Doubtful that such things were.

Oh, sweet with the wafts of the wildrose,Sweet is the breath of the summer, the hushed spirit lapping and lulling!Man feels near to the kind red earth; as her nursling she draws himClose, ah close, to the fragrant warmth of her Indian bosom.Deep he drinks of life; and death is a dream in the distance.

Oh, sweet with the wafts of the wildrose,

Sweet is the breath of the summer, the hushed spirit lapping and lulling!

Man feels near to the kind red earth; as her nursling she draws him

Close, ah close, to the fragrant warmth of her Indian bosom.

Deep he drinks of life; and death is a dream in the distance.

Rare is the sweet of the summer; the good world’s bounty and beautySuch as they saw and lost, who bought us our peace with their passion.Such, on the great Three Days of the great Third Year of the war-time,Lay this pleasant land, with the long South Mountain to westward;Blue these billowing hills circled it, friendly enfolded,Lucent in sun, or dark with the shadows of clouds floating over;Silvered with ghostly gray of the rains, in their soft-footed marchesMelting away and passing, and leaving the blue in the sunlight.So the farmland lay, with the yellow gleam of its wheatfields,Green of the standing corn, a-glisten in beauteous battalions,Pastures with dreaming cattle, and tawny streams where they loiter,Dark-green orchard slopes, and the small white houses of farmers.So lay the little town, with its brick-paved walks and its alleys,Garden-glimpses fair, with the faint-blue hills for a background,Over the whitewashed fences the rosy hollyhocks leaning;Fate-shadowed, sleeping town, in its listless grasp as it slumberedHolding the reins of power, the gathered reins of the roadwaysStretched to the north and south, to the northwest and northeast and southeast,Roadways half a score, in the grasp of the fate-shadowed sleeper,—Reins of power indeed, should a strong hand suddenly seize them!

Rare is the sweet of the summer; the good world’s bounty and beauty

Such as they saw and lost, who bought us our peace with their passion.

Such, on the great Three Days of the great Third Year of the war-time,

Lay this pleasant land, with the long South Mountain to westward;

Blue these billowing hills circled it, friendly enfolded,

Lucent in sun, or dark with the shadows of clouds floating over;

Silvered with ghostly gray of the rains, in their soft-footed marches

Melting away and passing, and leaving the blue in the sunlight.

So the farmland lay, with the yellow gleam of its wheatfields,

Green of the standing corn, a-glisten in beauteous battalions,

Pastures with dreaming cattle, and tawny streams where they loiter,

Dark-green orchard slopes, and the small white houses of farmers.

So lay the little town, with its brick-paved walks and its alleys,

Garden-glimpses fair, with the faint-blue hills for a background,

Over the whitewashed fences the rosy hollyhocks leaning;

Fate-shadowed, sleeping town, in its listless grasp as it slumbered

Holding the reins of power, the gathered reins of the roadways

Stretched to the north and south, to the northwest and northeast and southeast,

Roadways half a score, in the grasp of the fate-shadowed sleeper,—

Reins of power indeed, should a strong hand suddenly seize them!

What strong hand should seize? Swift-reaching, and sinewed with iron,Masterful hand of Lee, great Captain, intrepid invader?Far-away cities feared. Or, haply, hand new to the wieldingOne huge host as a sword, untried in its strength or its weakness,Unknown hand of Meade, at the southward uncertainly groping?Stirred with a dream of dread was the little town as it slumbered;Sudden it started and woke.—Through the hush of the young, hot morningOne sharp shot, and another—and born was the Battle of Battles!

What strong hand should seize? Swift-reaching, and sinewed with iron,

Masterful hand of Lee, great Captain, intrepid invader?

Far-away cities feared. Or, haply, hand new to the wielding

One huge host as a sword, untried in its strength or its weakness,

Unknown hand of Meade, at the southward uncertainly groping?

Stirred with a dream of dread was the little town as it slumbered;

Sudden it started and woke.

—Through the hush of the young, hot morning

One sharp shot, and another—and born was the Battle of Battles!

Long had the good land lain in the sun and the rain, with its ridges,Rich broad fields for the farmer, and hills dark-fledged with the forests;Yet was the end ordained of the old earth’s writhing and travailNeither the breathing beauty of grainfields, nor wealth of the harvest,Neither the brooding charm of the wood, nor the trees for the builder;Not for these was the earth-pang; for Pain, for Pain sacrificialOffered to God; for the altar whereon Man blindly or wiselyLaid, for the Faith that was in him, his body born of a woman,Laid, in his passion of service, the life of his own blood-brother,—Even for that Altar august had the ridges and hills from aforetimeWaited, elect. So of old, under Syrian azure, and burningStars of that ancient land, grew a great Tree, branched like another;Soared to its height, and waited, elect for the Cross of all crosses.Now was arrived the hour, and the stern supreme dedication,Sealing the brow of the land for the Place of the Battle of Battles.

Long had the good land lain in the sun and the rain, with its ridges,

Rich broad fields for the farmer, and hills dark-fledged with the forests;

Yet was the end ordained of the old earth’s writhing and travail

Neither the breathing beauty of grainfields, nor wealth of the harvest,

Neither the brooding charm of the wood, nor the trees for the builder;

Not for these was the earth-pang; for Pain, for Pain sacrificial

Offered to God; for the altar whereon Man blindly or wisely

Laid, for the Faith that was in him, his body born of a woman,

Laid, in his passion of service, the life of his own blood-brother,—

Even for that Altar august had the ridges and hills from aforetime

Waited, elect. So of old, under Syrian azure, and burning

Stars of that ancient land, grew a great Tree, branched like another;

Soared to its height, and waited, elect for the Cross of all crosses.

Now was arrived the hour, and the stern supreme dedication,

Sealing the brow of the land for the Place of the Battle of Battles.

Twice had the sun gone down on the conflict as yet undetermined.Two fierce days were done, and the marred earth cumbered with horror,Horror of soulless pain of the beasts that perish unknowing,Horror of human ruin, the shattered sheaths of the spirit,Horror men pray to forget, and the tongue refuses to tell it.Two proud days were done, that shall shine with the splendors of valorOut of the night of the past, and live with the life of the nation:Splendors that crowd like stars—how the names press faster and faster!Splendors that melt like stars in the milkwhite highway of heaven,Fame without name, and the deeds remembered of doers forgotten.Two strange days were done; for Fate on the echoing anvil,Clashing with blow upon blow, had fashioned a strength out of failure,Craftily forging in fire and clangor the Line of the Union,Battle-line hard to break. It was curved like the hook of the fisher,Rough Culp’s Hill the barb, and the Hill of the Graves was the curving;Straight as a shaft it stretched to the tawny stream at the southward,—Running then red,—and the rocks of the rude-piled Den of the Devil,Round-Top the Less, and the flank of the Greater, fledged with the forest,Fortresses fit for the Left. So the Line had been forged out of failure,Battle-line hard to break.Yet sick were the souls of the leaders,Burdened with pity and loss; the field with unspeakable anguishGroaned to the large clear moon; might the army abide such a morrow?Cautious courageous Meade, not playing with lives as with counters,Held his commanders in council, retracing, unweaving the war-web,Shifting the fiery threads. At the last, it was brought to the question.Was it retreat that slept in the brazen throats of the bugles?Each after each answered No; Newton and Gibbon and Birney,Williams and Sedgwick and Sykes, Slocum and Howard and Hancock,Soul-sick with pity and loss, yet steadily acting the soldier,Man after man answered No. They were all one will; and their CaptainGripped the huge host as a sword, that was utterly his for the wielding.—So the warm bright night drew on to the Day of decision.

Twice had the sun gone down on the conflict as yet undetermined.

Two fierce days were done, and the marred earth cumbered with horror,

Horror of soulless pain of the beasts that perish unknowing,

Horror of human ruin, the shattered sheaths of the spirit,

Horror men pray to forget, and the tongue refuses to tell it.

Two proud days were done, that shall shine with the splendors of valor

Out of the night of the past, and live with the life of the nation:

Splendors that crowd like stars—how the names press faster and faster!

Splendors that melt like stars in the milkwhite highway of heaven,

Fame without name, and the deeds remembered of doers forgotten.

Two strange days were done; for Fate on the echoing anvil,

Clashing with blow upon blow, had fashioned a strength out of failure,

Craftily forging in fire and clangor the Line of the Union,

Battle-line hard to break. It was curved like the hook of the fisher,

Rough Culp’s Hill the barb, and the Hill of the Graves was the curving;

Straight as a shaft it stretched to the tawny stream at the southward,—

Running then red,—and the rocks of the rude-piled Den of the Devil,

Round-Top the Less, and the flank of the Greater, fledged with the forest,

Fortresses fit for the Left. So the Line had been forged out of failure,

Battle-line hard to break.

Yet sick were the souls of the leaders,Burdened with pity and loss; the field with unspeakable anguishGroaned to the large clear moon; might the army abide such a morrow?Cautious courageous Meade, not playing with lives as with counters,Held his commanders in council, retracing, unweaving the war-web,Shifting the fiery threads. At the last, it was brought to the question.Was it retreat that slept in the brazen throats of the bugles?Each after each answered No; Newton and Gibbon and Birney,Williams and Sedgwick and Sykes, Slocum and Howard and Hancock,Soul-sick with pity and loss, yet steadily acting the soldier,Man after man answered No. They were all one will; and their CaptainGripped the huge host as a sword, that was utterly his for the wielding.—So the warm bright night drew on to the Day of decision.

Yet sick were the souls of the leaders,

Burdened with pity and loss; the field with unspeakable anguish

Groaned to the large clear moon; might the army abide such a morrow?

Cautious courageous Meade, not playing with lives as with counters,

Held his commanders in council, retracing, unweaving the war-web,

Shifting the fiery threads. At the last, it was brought to the question.

Was it retreat that slept in the brazen throats of the bugles?

Each after each answered No; Newton and Gibbon and Birney,

Williams and Sedgwick and Sykes, Slocum and Howard and Hancock,

Soul-sick with pity and loss, yet steadily acting the soldier,

Man after man answered No. They were all one will; and their Captain

Gripped the huge host as a sword, that was utterly his for the wielding.

—So the warm bright night drew on to the Day of decision.

Day crept wan on the world. ’Twas the hour when the birds in the branchesOne after one awake, in the dewy cool and the dimness,Small sweet voices of joy, praising the sunlight that shall be.Silvery the hour, and a semblance of death in the birth of the morning;Sacred the sunless hour; now rent, as the veil of the temple,All that silver spell. In the dewy cool of the covertsSounded no voices of birds; but the whistling hiss of the bullet,Ruffling volley on volley, and yell of the South, and the angryRoar of the strong hurrah from the throats of the soldiers of Slocum,There on the rough sheer steep, in the thick of the Culp’s Hill woodlands,There on the rock-strewn plain, till the sun stared hot on the struggle,Jealously battling to wrest, from the grasp of a blindfold victor,Vantage but half discerned, and a foothold found in the darkness:Brave was the blindfold victor, and fiercely he clung to his foothold;Almost he groped to the prize, to the gleam of the hard white highwayOn to Baltimore sweeping, the one sure outlet of safety;Almost he chanced with his hand on the close-hoarded power of the powder:Brave and blind, or beholding too late, on the plain and the hillside,Seven vain hours he fought; then reeling let go the advantage,Fell back panting and foiled. Once again in its rugged intrenchmentsRested the Corps of the Star; on the field rested many forever.So sped the morn on the Right.

Day crept wan on the world. ’Twas the hour when the birds in the branches

One after one awake, in the dewy cool and the dimness,

Small sweet voices of joy, praising the sunlight that shall be.

Silvery the hour, and a semblance of death in the birth of the morning;

Sacred the sunless hour; now rent, as the veil of the temple,

All that silver spell. In the dewy cool of the coverts

Sounded no voices of birds; but the whistling hiss of the bullet,

Ruffling volley on volley, and yell of the South, and the angry

Roar of the strong hurrah from the throats of the soldiers of Slocum,

There on the rough sheer steep, in the thick of the Culp’s Hill woodlands,

There on the rock-strewn plain, till the sun stared hot on the struggle,

Jealously battling to wrest, from the grasp of a blindfold victor,

Vantage but half discerned, and a foothold found in the darkness:

Brave was the blindfold victor, and fiercely he clung to his foothold;

Almost he groped to the prize, to the gleam of the hard white highway

On to Baltimore sweeping, the one sure outlet of safety;

Almost he chanced with his hand on the close-hoarded power of the powder:

Brave and blind, or beholding too late, on the plain and the hillside,

Seven vain hours he fought; then reeling let go the advantage,

Fell back panting and foiled. Once again in its rugged intrenchments

Rested the Corps of the Star; on the field rested many forever.

So sped the morn on the Right.

But the Left lay still, as enchanted:Two huge armies outstretched, and between them the undulant valleyBasking broad, as asleep; only now and again through the quietRipped the skirmishers’ rifles, a crackle increasing, then ceasing;Now and again from the Right came the rolling rumors of battleEchoing far, but disturbed not the dream of the armies enchanted:Ceased at the last all sound, and the magical slumber was deepened.So the bright hot day drew on to the noontide, and passed it.Scarce had the old-fashioned clocks, in the farmhouses hushed, apprehensive,—Equably telling the tale of the fire-wingèd minutes that fleetedBearing the death of men, as in days of peace, when the minutesBore but the blessing of toil, and a sleep with its face to the morrow,—Scarce had the clocks struck One, when the deep-toned boom of the cannon,—Hark, it was twice!—on the ridge that was held by the Southron, gave signal:Boom, boom, boom after boom to the right, to the left, in the centre;Cloud, cloud, cloud after cloud, white smoke-clouds that sprang out and hung there,Massing, concealing, yet severed again and again by the flame-gush.Now from the heights of the Union the batteries thundered their answer,Boom, boom, boom after boom, from the right and the left and the centre,Surf on a winter-bound coast, a tempestuous roaring incessant.Piercingly rose as a cry, on that ground of vast sound elemental,Scream of the travailing shells as they burst o’er the cloud-covered valley.Trembled the solid earth, as she thrills in the throes of the earthquake;Prickled the sulphurous air with the demon-breath of the powder;Fainted the hearts of men at the endless unbearable clamor;Filled were the heaven and the earth with the clang of that duel of iron:Such they beheld not before, and heard not,—a combat of giants!What did it mean on the earth? Stark terror and blood and confusion;Shriek of the battery-horses, and hell-blaze of caissons exploding;Reel of the torn cannoneer as he suddenly drops by his cannon,Spring of the quick volunteer to snatch from his dead hand the rammer;Orderlies galloping past, and a rumor of somewhat a-brewing:Crouching of soldiers in gray, at the rear, in the underwoods’ flicker,—Charge? we shall charge by and by? then a pipe of Virginia tobacco!Over their heads as they lie, by the trunks of the fallen trees pillowed,Jesting and resting an hour, come showering the boughs of the saplings.Crouching of soldiers in blue, at the front, by the walls and the fences,Waiting a charge—will they charge? and the brown fingers lock on the musket;Sharply a rifle-gun bolt rips up the ground underneath him.There in the field on the slope is a bellow of suffering cattle,Out by the farmgate yonder, a tangle and mangle of horses;Shells through the farmhouse roof, where the green moss grew on the shingles;Shattered the apple-tree now, where the robin would sing at the sunset;Shall there be song again, in a world given over to devils?Shattered the stones of the dead, and about them the shapes of the dying;Boom, boom, boom after boom to the right, to the left, in the centre,Endless—will it be endless? and how shall the spirit endure it?What did it mean in the heaven? Ah surely, black lips of the cannon,Surely you spake in your wrath, and the soul of the world understood you!Else it were horror indeed, and the blind brute rage of the jungle,Earth returning to slime, and the hissing and tearing of dragons!Guns of the Gettysburg heights, ye spake, in your awful contending,Words ye spake through the cloud, with august oracular voices,Mighty reverberant watchwords of Titan-forces in conflict:Crying, “The feuds of States!” and replying, “The peace of a Nation!”Crying, “The sundered stars!” and replying, “The heavens in their clustersLed in the lines of law, and linked in their differing gloryStar unto star to the end, until God folds them up as a vesture!”Crying, “The old-time pride, and the chivalrous grace and the splendor,Feudal rule of the Few, and a serfdom meet for the Many!”Thundering out of the cloud, as the Voice on the summit of Sinai,“Nay! But the larger Hope, and the limitless future of Manhood!”These were the words that ye uttered, O hot black lips of the cannon,Catching them up from the lips of the orators fallen on silence,Voices of lion-like men, in senates no longer resounding;Now the debate was yours: and above it, the Arbiter waited!

But the Left lay still, as enchanted:

Two huge armies outstretched, and between them the undulant valley

Basking broad, as asleep; only now and again through the quiet

Ripped the skirmishers’ rifles, a crackle increasing, then ceasing;

Now and again from the Right came the rolling rumors of battle

Echoing far, but disturbed not the dream of the armies enchanted:

Ceased at the last all sound, and the magical slumber was deepened.

So the bright hot day drew on to the noontide, and passed it.

Scarce had the old-fashioned clocks, in the farmhouses hushed, apprehensive,—Equably telling the tale of the fire-wingèd minutes that fleetedBearing the death of men, as in days of peace, when the minutesBore but the blessing of toil, and a sleep with its face to the morrow,—Scarce had the clocks struck One, when the deep-toned boom of the cannon,—Hark, it was twice!—on the ridge that was held by the Southron, gave signal:Boom, boom, boom after boom to the right, to the left, in the centre;Cloud, cloud, cloud after cloud, white smoke-clouds that sprang out and hung there,Massing, concealing, yet severed again and again by the flame-gush.Now from the heights of the Union the batteries thundered their answer,Boom, boom, boom after boom, from the right and the left and the centre,Surf on a winter-bound coast, a tempestuous roaring incessant.Piercingly rose as a cry, on that ground of vast sound elemental,Scream of the travailing shells as they burst o’er the cloud-covered valley.Trembled the solid earth, as she thrills in the throes of the earthquake;Prickled the sulphurous air with the demon-breath of the powder;Fainted the hearts of men at the endless unbearable clamor;Filled were the heaven and the earth with the clang of that duel of iron:Such they beheld not before, and heard not,—a combat of giants!What did it mean on the earth? Stark terror and blood and confusion;Shriek of the battery-horses, and hell-blaze of caissons exploding;Reel of the torn cannoneer as he suddenly drops by his cannon,Spring of the quick volunteer to snatch from his dead hand the rammer;Orderlies galloping past, and a rumor of somewhat a-brewing:Crouching of soldiers in gray, at the rear, in the underwoods’ flicker,—Charge? we shall charge by and by? then a pipe of Virginia tobacco!Over their heads as they lie, by the trunks of the fallen trees pillowed,Jesting and resting an hour, come showering the boughs of the saplings.Crouching of soldiers in blue, at the front, by the walls and the fences,Waiting a charge—will they charge? and the brown fingers lock on the musket;Sharply a rifle-gun bolt rips up the ground underneath him.There in the field on the slope is a bellow of suffering cattle,Out by the farmgate yonder, a tangle and mangle of horses;Shells through the farmhouse roof, where the green moss grew on the shingles;Shattered the apple-tree now, where the robin would sing at the sunset;Shall there be song again, in a world given over to devils?Shattered the stones of the dead, and about them the shapes of the dying;Boom, boom, boom after boom to the right, to the left, in the centre,Endless—will it be endless? and how shall the spirit endure it?

Scarce had the old-fashioned clocks, in the farmhouses hushed, apprehensive,—

Equably telling the tale of the fire-wingèd minutes that fleeted

Bearing the death of men, as in days of peace, when the minutes

Bore but the blessing of toil, and a sleep with its face to the morrow,

—Scarce had the clocks struck One, when the deep-toned boom of the cannon,—

Hark, it was twice!—on the ridge that was held by the Southron, gave signal:

Boom, boom, boom after boom to the right, to the left, in the centre;

Cloud, cloud, cloud after cloud, white smoke-clouds that sprang out and hung there,

Massing, concealing, yet severed again and again by the flame-gush.

Now from the heights of the Union the batteries thundered their answer,

Boom, boom, boom after boom, from the right and the left and the centre,

Surf on a winter-bound coast, a tempestuous roaring incessant.

Piercingly rose as a cry, on that ground of vast sound elemental,

Scream of the travailing shells as they burst o’er the cloud-covered valley.

Trembled the solid earth, as she thrills in the throes of the earthquake;

Prickled the sulphurous air with the demon-breath of the powder;

Fainted the hearts of men at the endless unbearable clamor;

Filled were the heaven and the earth with the clang of that duel of iron:

Such they beheld not before, and heard not,—a combat of giants!

What did it mean on the earth? Stark terror and blood and confusion;

Shriek of the battery-horses, and hell-blaze of caissons exploding;

Reel of the torn cannoneer as he suddenly drops by his cannon,

Spring of the quick volunteer to snatch from his dead hand the rammer;

Orderlies galloping past, and a rumor of somewhat a-brewing:

Crouching of soldiers in gray, at the rear, in the underwoods’ flicker,—

Charge? we shall charge by and by? then a pipe of Virginia tobacco!

Over their heads as they lie, by the trunks of the fallen trees pillowed,

Jesting and resting an hour, come showering the boughs of the saplings.

Crouching of soldiers in blue, at the front, by the walls and the fences,

Waiting a charge—will they charge? and the brown fingers lock on the musket;

Sharply a rifle-gun bolt rips up the ground underneath him.

There in the field on the slope is a bellow of suffering cattle,

Out by the farmgate yonder, a tangle and mangle of horses;

Shells through the farmhouse roof, where the green moss grew on the shingles;

Shattered the apple-tree now, where the robin would sing at the sunset;

Shall there be song again, in a world given over to devils?

Shattered the stones of the dead, and about them the shapes of the dying;

Boom, boom, boom after boom to the right, to the left, in the centre,

Endless—will it be endless? and how shall the spirit endure it?

What did it mean in the heaven? Ah surely, black lips of the cannon,Surely you spake in your wrath, and the soul of the world understood you!Else it were horror indeed, and the blind brute rage of the jungle,Earth returning to slime, and the hissing and tearing of dragons!Guns of the Gettysburg heights, ye spake, in your awful contending,Words ye spake through the cloud, with august oracular voices,Mighty reverberant watchwords of Titan-forces in conflict:Crying, “The feuds of States!” and replying, “The peace of a Nation!”Crying, “The sundered stars!” and replying, “The heavens in their clustersLed in the lines of law, and linked in their differing gloryStar unto star to the end, until God folds them up as a vesture!”Crying, “The old-time pride, and the chivalrous grace and the splendor,Feudal rule of the Few, and a serfdom meet for the Many!”Thundering out of the cloud, as the Voice on the summit of Sinai,“Nay! But the larger Hope, and the limitless future of Manhood!”These were the words that ye uttered, O hot black lips of the cannon,Catching them up from the lips of the orators fallen on silence,Voices of lion-like men, in senates no longer resounding;Now the debate was yours: and above it, the Arbiter waited!

What did it mean in the heaven? Ah surely, black lips of the cannon,

Surely you spake in your wrath, and the soul of the world understood you!

Else it were horror indeed, and the blind brute rage of the jungle,

Earth returning to slime, and the hissing and tearing of dragons!

Guns of the Gettysburg heights, ye spake, in your awful contending,

Words ye spake through the cloud, with august oracular voices,

Mighty reverberant watchwords of Titan-forces in conflict:

Crying, “The feuds of States!” and replying, “The peace of a Nation!”

Crying, “The sundered stars!” and replying, “The heavens in their clusters

Led in the lines of law, and linked in their differing glory

Star unto star to the end, until God folds them up as a vesture!”

Crying, “The old-time pride, and the chivalrous grace and the splendor,

Feudal rule of the Few, and a serfdom meet for the Many!”

Thundering out of the cloud, as the Voice on the summit of Sinai,

“Nay! But the larger Hope, and the limitless future of Manhood!”

These were the words that ye uttered, O hot black lips of the cannon,

Catching them up from the lips of the orators fallen on silence,

Voices of lion-like men, in senates no longer resounding;

Now the debate was yours: and above it, the Arbiter waited!

Slowly the men of the South, outstretched in the underwoods’ flicker,Jesting and resting an hour,—the close-coupled, war-welded comrades,Hollow-cheeked veteran boys, unsubduable gaunt gray elders,Garbed in gray or in butternut-brown, the old rustical earth-hue,—Slowly, half-stunned, they arose, made aware of a lull in the tumult.Then through the ranks as they closed, like a thrill through a tense-drawn bowstring,Passed a wild whisper of joy. Is it true? are the batteries crippledThere on the Hill of the Graves, and the long ridge held by the Union?Silenced at last and spent? and the Gray Chief raises his field-glass,He of the ardent eyes and the beard with its gracious silver,Leader beloved, Lee, in designing and daring a master.Gone from the Hill of the Graves are the guns with their merciless menace;Now from the smoke-reeking ridge the voices gigantic respond not:This is the moment indeed; it is big with the fate of the battle!Well are they skilled what to do, his war-seasoned faithful commanders,Longstreet, and Ambrose Hill, and Pickett the soldier intrepidLeading invincible veterans, chosen, the flower of the army.(Yet, O that Jackson were here, with his blue eyes wild and exalted,Soldier-saint of the South, to be sharer of all that is coming,As in the past he shared triumph and council and crisis,Bivouac-fire in the pines, and the sleep on the brown pine-needles—O that he too were here, who has crossed the River, and sweetlyRests in no earthly shade, and returns not to conflict or council!)This is the moment indeed: it is big with the fate of the battleThat is big with the fate of the world!Drawing rein at the station of Longstreet,Eagerly springs from the saddle George Pickett the soldier intrepid,Face fire-red with his hope and his haste, and the lion-shaggyMane of his cavalier locks tossed with the rush of his riding.“Charge? do we charge?” So he stands.—As over the slope of a mountainGlooms a shadow broad, and the birds in the forest stop singing,Darkens with secret foreboding the visage of Longstreet the leader;Shadow hangs on his soul, and his lips are locked; yet reluctantBows he his beard on his breast.It is done; and the moment returns not.

Slowly the men of the South, outstretched in the underwoods’ flicker,

Jesting and resting an hour,—the close-coupled, war-welded comrades,

Hollow-cheeked veteran boys, unsubduable gaunt gray elders,

Garbed in gray or in butternut-brown, the old rustical earth-hue,—

Slowly, half-stunned, they arose, made aware of a lull in the tumult.

Then through the ranks as they closed, like a thrill through a tense-drawn bowstring,

Passed a wild whisper of joy. Is it true? are the batteries crippled

There on the Hill of the Graves, and the long ridge held by the Union?

Silenced at last and spent? and the Gray Chief raises his field-glass,

He of the ardent eyes and the beard with its gracious silver,

Leader beloved, Lee, in designing and daring a master.

Gone from the Hill of the Graves are the guns with their merciless menace;

Now from the smoke-reeking ridge the voices gigantic respond not:

This is the moment indeed; it is big with the fate of the battle!

Well are they skilled what to do, his war-seasoned faithful commanders,

Longstreet, and Ambrose Hill, and Pickett the soldier intrepid

Leading invincible veterans, chosen, the flower of the army.

(Yet, O that Jackson were here, with his blue eyes wild and exalted,

Soldier-saint of the South, to be sharer of all that is coming,

As in the past he shared triumph and council and crisis,

Bivouac-fire in the pines, and the sleep on the brown pine-needles—

O that he too were here, who has crossed the River, and sweetly

Rests in no earthly shade, and returns not to conflict or council!)

This is the moment indeed: it is big with the fate of the battle

That is big with the fate of the world!

Drawing rein at the station of Longstreet,Eagerly springs from the saddle George Pickett the soldier intrepid,Face fire-red with his hope and his haste, and the lion-shaggyMane of his cavalier locks tossed with the rush of his riding.“Charge? do we charge?” So he stands.

Drawing rein at the station of Longstreet,

Eagerly springs from the saddle George Pickett the soldier intrepid,

Face fire-red with his hope and his haste, and the lion-shaggy

Mane of his cavalier locks tossed with the rush of his riding.

“Charge? do we charge?” So he stands.

—As over the slope of a mountainGlooms a shadow broad, and the birds in the forest stop singing,Darkens with secret foreboding the visage of Longstreet the leader;Shadow hangs on his soul, and his lips are locked; yet reluctantBows he his beard on his breast.It is done; and the moment returns not.

—As over the slope of a mountain

Glooms a shadow broad, and the birds in the forest stop singing,

Darkens with secret foreboding the visage of Longstreet the leader;

Shadow hangs on his soul, and his lips are locked; yet reluctant

Bows he his beard on his breast.

It is done; and the moment returns not.

Crouching meanwhile at the front, by the low stone walls and the fencesThere on the opposite ridge, the soldiers of Hays and of Gibbon,—Every man soldierly-proud of the Trefoil he wore on his cap-crown,Were it of white or of blue, the Trefoil that told he was Hancock’s,—Crouching expectant and grim, in the roar of that great cannonading,Broke into cheer after cheer: with the flag of the Trefoil behind him,Rode the corps-commander, reviewing the line of his legions,Knowing men’s need of a man. In the fury of sound, and the franticShriek of the battery horses, and hell-blaze of caissons exploding,Reared the black charger he rode; yet persisted the resolute rider,Masterful, mounted afresh; and along the line ran the murmur,Flame on a dry field’s edge, “Hancock, it’s Hancock!” and freshlyKindled the cheer as he passed.So they lay in the line, with the musketsClutched in the hard hands, ready; the men of New York and New Jersey,Delaware’s sons, and Maine’s, and the close-coupled, war-welded comrades,Stalwart Michigan men and the soldiers of old Massachusetts.There were the very sons of the well-loved soil they defended,Stretched by the low stone wall and the dark little cluster of oak-trees.There were the lads of Vermont, fresh to the field, with equipmentsGlittering,—gallant to see as the folds of a clear-colored ensignNewly upreared on the staff, floating out stainless and splendid;There too, knit in its place, was the shred of the First Minnesota,Left from the Second Day’s charge when it flung itself in as a stop-gap,Stirring to see as the shred of the battle-burnt colors left clingingBlackened and rent, to the staff, and advanced in the forefront of danger.Nay, nor alone the shoots of the rooted stock of the fathersStood in that hedge of war; but the aliens, the sons of adoption,Loyal to death to the land of their love, as a mystical Mother,Virgin, glorious, mild, immortal, a presence to die for!There in the line of defence was the flag Garibaldi once plantedProud on the ramparts of Rome; and the bright-green beautiful banner,Banner of glory and grief, that has blown in the breezes of battleOver all fields of the world, to beckon high hearts to the onset;Yet was uplifted supreme the Flag of the hope of the future,Set with the splendors of stars, and striped with the heart’s-blood of heroes.So they lay in the line, with the hard hands clutching the muskets:Men of the farm and the forge and the carpenter’s bench and the engine;Men from the counter and desk; and the teacher was there with his pupils;There the bold-eyed firemen, the turbulent lads of the cities;There the men of the shore,—they had left the broad nets and the fishing;There the men of the axe,—they had left the tall trees in the forest.What was it drew them away from their labor and love and contentment,Buying and selling and scheming, and building, and yoking the oxen?Made them willing to fling down Life, the mysterious jewel,All the lovely and strange thing that it is, with the pleasantLight of the kindly sun, and the sweet of the grass in the summer,Salt of the large sea-breeze, and the mild stars shining in heaven,Joy of the free whole body, and wonderful wafts of the spirit?All a man hath will he give for his life,—but his life for his duty!This is the touchstone of manhood, the swift and the final election,Test of the heart that is true to some lofty and ultimate brightnessSecretly set above self; at its blindest, shall God not accept it?Ah, but how blessed are they,—not summoned by voices misleading,Lured of the marsh-light, and tricked to the true defence of a falsehood,—Who with their measure of power, conscious, half-conscious, unconscious,Work the Eternal Will, in the chaos a force of salvation,Motes of the dust as it streams, yet touched with the light of God’s purpose!

Crouching meanwhile at the front, by the low stone walls and the fences

There on the opposite ridge, the soldiers of Hays and of Gibbon,—

Every man soldierly-proud of the Trefoil he wore on his cap-crown,

Were it of white or of blue, the Trefoil that told he was Hancock’s,—

Crouching expectant and grim, in the roar of that great cannonading,

Broke into cheer after cheer: with the flag of the Trefoil behind him,

Rode the corps-commander, reviewing the line of his legions,

Knowing men’s need of a man. In the fury of sound, and the frantic

Shriek of the battery horses, and hell-blaze of caissons exploding,

Reared the black charger he rode; yet persisted the resolute rider,

Masterful, mounted afresh; and along the line ran the murmur,

Flame on a dry field’s edge, “Hancock, it’s Hancock!” and freshly

Kindled the cheer as he passed.

So they lay in the line, with the musketsClutched in the hard hands, ready; the men of New York and New Jersey,Delaware’s sons, and Maine’s, and the close-coupled, war-welded comrades,Stalwart Michigan men and the soldiers of old Massachusetts.There were the very sons of the well-loved soil they defended,Stretched by the low stone wall and the dark little cluster of oak-trees.There were the lads of Vermont, fresh to the field, with equipmentsGlittering,—gallant to see as the folds of a clear-colored ensignNewly upreared on the staff, floating out stainless and splendid;There too, knit in its place, was the shred of the First Minnesota,Left from the Second Day’s charge when it flung itself in as a stop-gap,Stirring to see as the shred of the battle-burnt colors left clingingBlackened and rent, to the staff, and advanced in the forefront of danger.Nay, nor alone the shoots of the rooted stock of the fathersStood in that hedge of war; but the aliens, the sons of adoption,Loyal to death to the land of their love, as a mystical Mother,Virgin, glorious, mild, immortal, a presence to die for!There in the line of defence was the flag Garibaldi once plantedProud on the ramparts of Rome; and the bright-green beautiful banner,Banner of glory and grief, that has blown in the breezes of battleOver all fields of the world, to beckon high hearts to the onset;Yet was uplifted supreme the Flag of the hope of the future,Set with the splendors of stars, and striped with the heart’s-blood of heroes.

So they lay in the line, with the muskets

Clutched in the hard hands, ready; the men of New York and New Jersey,

Delaware’s sons, and Maine’s, and the close-coupled, war-welded comrades,

Stalwart Michigan men and the soldiers of old Massachusetts.

There were the very sons of the well-loved soil they defended,

Stretched by the low stone wall and the dark little cluster of oak-trees.

There were the lads of Vermont, fresh to the field, with equipments

Glittering,—gallant to see as the folds of a clear-colored ensign

Newly upreared on the staff, floating out stainless and splendid;

There too, knit in its place, was the shred of the First Minnesota,

Left from the Second Day’s charge when it flung itself in as a stop-gap,

Stirring to see as the shred of the battle-burnt colors left clinging

Blackened and rent, to the staff, and advanced in the forefront of danger.

Nay, nor alone the shoots of the rooted stock of the fathers

Stood in that hedge of war; but the aliens, the sons of adoption,

Loyal to death to the land of their love, as a mystical Mother,

Virgin, glorious, mild, immortal, a presence to die for!

There in the line of defence was the flag Garibaldi once planted

Proud on the ramparts of Rome; and the bright-green beautiful banner,

Banner of glory and grief, that has blown in the breezes of battle

Over all fields of the world, to beckon high hearts to the onset;

Yet was uplifted supreme the Flag of the hope of the future,

Set with the splendors of stars, and striped with the heart’s-blood of heroes.

So they lay in the line, with the hard hands clutching the muskets:Men of the farm and the forge and the carpenter’s bench and the engine;Men from the counter and desk; and the teacher was there with his pupils;There the bold-eyed firemen, the turbulent lads of the cities;There the men of the shore,—they had left the broad nets and the fishing;There the men of the axe,—they had left the tall trees in the forest.What was it drew them away from their labor and love and contentment,Buying and selling and scheming, and building, and yoking the oxen?Made them willing to fling down Life, the mysterious jewel,All the lovely and strange thing that it is, with the pleasantLight of the kindly sun, and the sweet of the grass in the summer,Salt of the large sea-breeze, and the mild stars shining in heaven,Joy of the free whole body, and wonderful wafts of the spirit?All a man hath will he give for his life,—but his life for his duty!This is the touchstone of manhood, the swift and the final election,Test of the heart that is true to some lofty and ultimate brightnessSecretly set above self; at its blindest, shall God not accept it?Ah, but how blessed are they,—not summoned by voices misleading,Lured of the marsh-light, and tricked to the true defence of a falsehood,—Who with their measure of power, conscious, half-conscious, unconscious,Work the Eternal Will, in the chaos a force of salvation,Motes of the dust as it streams, yet touched with the light of God’s purpose!

So they lay in the line, with the hard hands clutching the muskets:

Men of the farm and the forge and the carpenter’s bench and the engine;

Men from the counter and desk; and the teacher was there with his pupils;

There the bold-eyed firemen, the turbulent lads of the cities;

There the men of the shore,—they had left the broad nets and the fishing;

There the men of the axe,—they had left the tall trees in the forest.

What was it drew them away from their labor and love and contentment,

Buying and selling and scheming, and building, and yoking the oxen?

Made them willing to fling down Life, the mysterious jewel,

All the lovely and strange thing that it is, with the pleasant

Light of the kindly sun, and the sweet of the grass in the summer,

Salt of the large sea-breeze, and the mild stars shining in heaven,

Joy of the free whole body, and wonderful wafts of the spirit?

All a man hath will he give for his life,—but his life for his duty!

This is the touchstone of manhood, the swift and the final election,

Test of the heart that is true to some lofty and ultimate brightness

Secretly set above self; at its blindest, shall God not accept it?

Ah, but how blessed are they,—not summoned by voices misleading,

Lured of the marsh-light, and tricked to the true defence of a falsehood,—

Who with their measure of power, conscious, half-conscious, unconscious,

Work the Eternal Will, in the chaos a force of salvation,

Motes of the dust as it streams, yet touched with the light of God’s purpose!

So they lay in the line, as the discord diminished, and almostSeemed as a silence, to sense that was drowned with the sound of the cannon.Hung on the spirits of all men a prescience of something impendingGreat and strange, as at times when thick darkness possesses the noonday;Yet was the sky most bright with its burning azure; and strangelyShifted the wind, and lifted the lingering smoke as a curtain;Reek of the powder drew off, and the valley was bare and apparent,Dip of the hollowing plain, and the trampled green of the cornfields.Suddenly out of the wood, with a swift and resolute movement,Over the long slow slope of the hollowing plain to the eastward,Swept the tried Virginians, the war-seasoned soldiers of Pickett.Swinging with springing step, in the distance a rhythmic pulsation,Blithely they marched as those who march in a holiday pageant;Lightly they marched, and afar the foemen that looked on them loved them.Rode at the head of the column Pickett the soldier intrepid,Proudly, with cap a-slant, and cavalier locks free-floating;Rode with their brave brigades Armistead, Kemper, and Garnett.Joined the advance on the left, Pettigrew leading and Trimble,Regiments grim and seared with the scorch of the two days’ battle,Bleeding and torn with loss, but prompt to the fiery renewal:Mississippians fierce, and the undismayed Tennesseans,Valorous Alabamans, and soldiers of North Carolina.Onward the long wave rolled, steadily, steadily onward,Gray wave glinting with steel, and the battle-flags floating above it.So have you seen on the shore the line of the billow advancing,Fateful, unhasting, sure, to the charge uprearing exultantThreaten the land with its strength; from its crest, for an exquisite instant,Foam-bows backward stream,—in the next, it has vanished forever!Onward the long wave rolled, steadily, steadily onward,Over the hollowing plain, and the trampled green of the cornfields.Stood the two armies at gaze; until, from the stronghold of Howard,Hill of the Graves, and the ridge, and the shoulder of Round-Top the Lesser,Burst the leashed lightnings anew, and the roars of the thunder ironic!Forth from their hot black dens in the gorge of the cavernous cannon,—Guns new-thrust into place,—freed for the service appointed,Tigerish, Death and Fire leaped on the open arena.One low sound was heard through the tumult, and deeply remembered,Human, the moan of life mowed as the grass of the meadow.One sharp shudder ran through the host of the South, the beholders.(Over the mind of the Chief a memory, thrilling electric,Flashed, the revenge of Time: and he saw the blue-coated battalionsMove through the winterly light of the cruel Thirteenth of DecemberUp to the sunken wall that was topped with the rifles of Georgia:Stubborn and stern they came, to pile the bleak field with their bodies.He, who had looked on that day, looked now on his own, his Virginians,Drinking the cup of fire, like their brothers, their foemen, before them.Sorrow and pride in his soul struggled; he suffered, and spoke not.)Pain possessed the field, and the smoke-veil settled upon it;Yet underneath the cloud, as a strong wave under the sea-mist,Rolled the lessening line, steadily, steadily onward.Rifle-bolt, round-shot, and shell, from the right, from the left of them raking,Buzzing and screaming and bursting, harrowed the ranks of them redly;Strangely the Centre was silent,—the Centre, and eyes of the captainsFixed, in the storm, on the landmark, the dark little cluster of oak-treesFaintly and fitfully seen, and the low stone wall through the smoke-veil.Mingled anon in the whirl the whistle and whip of the bulletsSped from the sharpshooters’ rifles; anon in the iron confusion,Musketry crashed on the flank; and now on the breast of the columnFlamed the canister-fire from the gunners of Hays and of Gibbon.Blending, the sheeted blaze of the heavily-volleying musketsSuddenly fringed the front, from the regiments crouching expectant:Almost with awe they awaited the furious onset of foemenTried in the five-fold fire, and from hell undaunted emerging.Waited not long: with the crash of answering volley for volley,Raising the yell of the charge, wild as the howl of the wolf-pack,Surged up out of the smoke the first of the lean tanned faces,Teeth half-bared as in joy, and the sunken eyes savagely gleamingUnder the old gray brims and the slant of the battered visors.Man to man at last!In the grip and the sway of the wrestleSpringing the regiments clinched, flinging away their formation,Red-blind, sobbing for breath, mad in the terrible mellay,Mad for the blood-bright flags, for the star-crossed flags of the Southland,Borne on the crest of the wave through the broken lines of the Union—Broken ——Again to close; brief was the desperate triumph!Happy the Southron who died as cheering he planted his colors,Passed on the crest of the wave as it curved to the crash of its falling!Happy, not knowing defeat, Garnett, the gallant, and happyArmistead leaping the wall, lifting his cap on his sword-point,Smiting his hand on the cannon, and suddenly sinking across it!Not for them the crawl of the sick slow days of the captive,Torture of wounds, nor bruit of the perishing cause that they fought for—Rather swift conquest of Peace, and to enter the City of Silence!Not for them be sorrow; but sorrow for such men as haply,Flung on the flag of the South as it burst through the line of the Union,Fell, and died in their doubt, and knew not the sweep of the darknessOver their faces upturned was the passing of Victory’s garment!Victory! Shattered supports reeled on the right, and rolled backward.Islanded, closed in the copse, lost, without hope, the VirginianDoggedly loaded once more, and the Tennessean beside him;Thus had they chosen to die, each dealing death in his dying.Sullen, some bowed them to fate, waved the white sign of surrender,Droopingly trailed to the rear with the bayonet-glitter to guard them;Brokenly over the plain receded the sorrowful remnant,Choosing retreat through fire.Even so, dragged back to the ocean,So have you seen on the shore, reluctant, and leaving behind itSwathes of the dark-red weed, and the beaten foam, and the leapingGasping silver life of the deep, and the tragical driftwood,Some great wave withdrawn, at the turn of the tide, from the floodmark.Sad it seethes back to the sea.That was the turn of the war-tide,Ebb of the hope of the South, end of the Battle of Battles!

So they lay in the line, as the discord diminished, and almost

Seemed as a silence, to sense that was drowned with the sound of the cannon.

Hung on the spirits of all men a prescience of something impending

Great and strange, as at times when thick darkness possesses the noonday;

Yet was the sky most bright with its burning azure; and strangely

Shifted the wind, and lifted the lingering smoke as a curtain;

Reek of the powder drew off, and the valley was bare and apparent,

Dip of the hollowing plain, and the trampled green of the cornfields.

Suddenly out of the wood, with a swift and resolute movement,Over the long slow slope of the hollowing plain to the eastward,Swept the tried Virginians, the war-seasoned soldiers of Pickett.Swinging with springing step, in the distance a rhythmic pulsation,Blithely they marched as those who march in a holiday pageant;Lightly they marched, and afar the foemen that looked on them loved them.Rode at the head of the column Pickett the soldier intrepid,Proudly, with cap a-slant, and cavalier locks free-floating;Rode with their brave brigades Armistead, Kemper, and Garnett.Joined the advance on the left, Pettigrew leading and Trimble,Regiments grim and seared with the scorch of the two days’ battle,Bleeding and torn with loss, but prompt to the fiery renewal:Mississippians fierce, and the undismayed Tennesseans,Valorous Alabamans, and soldiers of North Carolina.Onward the long wave rolled, steadily, steadily onward,Gray wave glinting with steel, and the battle-flags floating above it.

Suddenly out of the wood, with a swift and resolute movement,

Over the long slow slope of the hollowing plain to the eastward,

Swept the tried Virginians, the war-seasoned soldiers of Pickett.

Swinging with springing step, in the distance a rhythmic pulsation,

Blithely they marched as those who march in a holiday pageant;

Lightly they marched, and afar the foemen that looked on them loved them.

Rode at the head of the column Pickett the soldier intrepid,

Proudly, with cap a-slant, and cavalier locks free-floating;

Rode with their brave brigades Armistead, Kemper, and Garnett.

Joined the advance on the left, Pettigrew leading and Trimble,

Regiments grim and seared with the scorch of the two days’ battle,

Bleeding and torn with loss, but prompt to the fiery renewal:

Mississippians fierce, and the undismayed Tennesseans,

Valorous Alabamans, and soldiers of North Carolina.

Onward the long wave rolled, steadily, steadily onward,

Gray wave glinting with steel, and the battle-flags floating above it.

So have you seen on the shore the line of the billow advancing,Fateful, unhasting, sure, to the charge uprearing exultantThreaten the land with its strength; from its crest, for an exquisite instant,Foam-bows backward stream,—in the next, it has vanished forever!

So have you seen on the shore the line of the billow advancing,

Fateful, unhasting, sure, to the charge uprearing exultant

Threaten the land with its strength; from its crest, for an exquisite instant,

Foam-bows backward stream,—in the next, it has vanished forever!

Onward the long wave rolled, steadily, steadily onward,Over the hollowing plain, and the trampled green of the cornfields.Stood the two armies at gaze; until, from the stronghold of Howard,Hill of the Graves, and the ridge, and the shoulder of Round-Top the Lesser,Burst the leashed lightnings anew, and the roars of the thunder ironic!Forth from their hot black dens in the gorge of the cavernous cannon,—Guns new-thrust into place,—freed for the service appointed,Tigerish, Death and Fire leaped on the open arena.One low sound was heard through the tumult, and deeply remembered,Human, the moan of life mowed as the grass of the meadow.One sharp shudder ran through the host of the South, the beholders.(Over the mind of the Chief a memory, thrilling electric,Flashed, the revenge of Time: and he saw the blue-coated battalionsMove through the winterly light of the cruel Thirteenth of DecemberUp to the sunken wall that was topped with the rifles of Georgia:Stubborn and stern they came, to pile the bleak field with their bodies.He, who had looked on that day, looked now on his own, his Virginians,Drinking the cup of fire, like their brothers, their foemen, before them.Sorrow and pride in his soul struggled; he suffered, and spoke not.)Pain possessed the field, and the smoke-veil settled upon it;Yet underneath the cloud, as a strong wave under the sea-mist,Rolled the lessening line, steadily, steadily onward.

Onward the long wave rolled, steadily, steadily onward,

Over the hollowing plain, and the trampled green of the cornfields.

Stood the two armies at gaze; until, from the stronghold of Howard,

Hill of the Graves, and the ridge, and the shoulder of Round-Top the Lesser,

Burst the leashed lightnings anew, and the roars of the thunder ironic!

Forth from their hot black dens in the gorge of the cavernous cannon,—

Guns new-thrust into place,—freed for the service appointed,

Tigerish, Death and Fire leaped on the open arena.

One low sound was heard through the tumult, and deeply remembered,

Human, the moan of life mowed as the grass of the meadow.

One sharp shudder ran through the host of the South, the beholders.

(Over the mind of the Chief a memory, thrilling electric,

Flashed, the revenge of Time: and he saw the blue-coated battalions

Move through the winterly light of the cruel Thirteenth of December

Up to the sunken wall that was topped with the rifles of Georgia:

Stubborn and stern they came, to pile the bleak field with their bodies.

He, who had looked on that day, looked now on his own, his Virginians,

Drinking the cup of fire, like their brothers, their foemen, before them.

Sorrow and pride in his soul struggled; he suffered, and spoke not.)

Pain possessed the field, and the smoke-veil settled upon it;

Yet underneath the cloud, as a strong wave under the sea-mist,

Rolled the lessening line, steadily, steadily onward.

Rifle-bolt, round-shot, and shell, from the right, from the left of them raking,Buzzing and screaming and bursting, harrowed the ranks of them redly;Strangely the Centre was silent,—the Centre, and eyes of the captainsFixed, in the storm, on the landmark, the dark little cluster of oak-treesFaintly and fitfully seen, and the low stone wall through the smoke-veil.Mingled anon in the whirl the whistle and whip of the bulletsSped from the sharpshooters’ rifles; anon in the iron confusion,Musketry crashed on the flank; and now on the breast of the columnFlamed the canister-fire from the gunners of Hays and of Gibbon.Blending, the sheeted blaze of the heavily-volleying musketsSuddenly fringed the front, from the regiments crouching expectant:Almost with awe they awaited the furious onset of foemenTried in the five-fold fire, and from hell undaunted emerging.

Rifle-bolt, round-shot, and shell, from the right, from the left of them raking,

Buzzing and screaming and bursting, harrowed the ranks of them redly;

Strangely the Centre was silent,—the Centre, and eyes of the captains

Fixed, in the storm, on the landmark, the dark little cluster of oak-trees

Faintly and fitfully seen, and the low stone wall through the smoke-veil.

Mingled anon in the whirl the whistle and whip of the bullets

Sped from the sharpshooters’ rifles; anon in the iron confusion,

Musketry crashed on the flank; and now on the breast of the column

Flamed the canister-fire from the gunners of Hays and of Gibbon.

Blending, the sheeted blaze of the heavily-volleying muskets

Suddenly fringed the front, from the regiments crouching expectant:

Almost with awe they awaited the furious onset of foemen

Tried in the five-fold fire, and from hell undaunted emerging.

Waited not long: with the crash of answering volley for volley,Raising the yell of the charge, wild as the howl of the wolf-pack,Surged up out of the smoke the first of the lean tanned faces,Teeth half-bared as in joy, and the sunken eyes savagely gleamingUnder the old gray brims and the slant of the battered visors.Man to man at last!

Waited not long: with the crash of answering volley for volley,

Raising the yell of the charge, wild as the howl of the wolf-pack,

Surged up out of the smoke the first of the lean tanned faces,

Teeth half-bared as in joy, and the sunken eyes savagely gleaming

Under the old gray brims and the slant of the battered visors.

Man to man at last!

In the grip and the sway of the wrestleSpringing the regiments clinched, flinging away their formation,Red-blind, sobbing for breath, mad in the terrible mellay,Mad for the blood-bright flags, for the star-crossed flags of the Southland,Borne on the crest of the wave through the broken lines of the Union—Broken ——

In the grip and the sway of the wrestle

Springing the regiments clinched, flinging away their formation,

Red-blind, sobbing for breath, mad in the terrible mellay,

Mad for the blood-bright flags, for the star-crossed flags of the Southland,

Borne on the crest of the wave through the broken lines of the Union—

Broken ——

Again to close; brief was the desperate triumph!Happy the Southron who died as cheering he planted his colors,Passed on the crest of the wave as it curved to the crash of its falling!Happy, not knowing defeat, Garnett, the gallant, and happyArmistead leaping the wall, lifting his cap on his sword-point,Smiting his hand on the cannon, and suddenly sinking across it!Not for them the crawl of the sick slow days of the captive,Torture of wounds, nor bruit of the perishing cause that they fought for—Rather swift conquest of Peace, and to enter the City of Silence!Not for them be sorrow; but sorrow for such men as haply,Flung on the flag of the South as it burst through the line of the Union,Fell, and died in their doubt, and knew not the sweep of the darknessOver their faces upturned was the passing of Victory’s garment!

Again to close; brief was the desperate triumph!

Happy the Southron who died as cheering he planted his colors,

Passed on the crest of the wave as it curved to the crash of its falling!

Happy, not knowing defeat, Garnett, the gallant, and happy

Armistead leaping the wall, lifting his cap on his sword-point,

Smiting his hand on the cannon, and suddenly sinking across it!

Not for them the crawl of the sick slow days of the captive,

Torture of wounds, nor bruit of the perishing cause that they fought for—

Rather swift conquest of Peace, and to enter the City of Silence!

Not for them be sorrow; but sorrow for such men as haply,

Flung on the flag of the South as it burst through the line of the Union,

Fell, and died in their doubt, and knew not the sweep of the darkness

Over their faces upturned was the passing of Victory’s garment!

Victory! Shattered supports reeled on the right, and rolled backward.Islanded, closed in the copse, lost, without hope, the VirginianDoggedly loaded once more, and the Tennessean beside him;Thus had they chosen to die, each dealing death in his dying.Sullen, some bowed them to fate, waved the white sign of surrender,Droopingly trailed to the rear with the bayonet-glitter to guard them;Brokenly over the plain receded the sorrowful remnant,Choosing retreat through fire.

Victory! Shattered supports reeled on the right, and rolled backward.

Islanded, closed in the copse, lost, without hope, the Virginian

Doggedly loaded once more, and the Tennessean beside him;

Thus had they chosen to die, each dealing death in his dying.

Sullen, some bowed them to fate, waved the white sign of surrender,

Droopingly trailed to the rear with the bayonet-glitter to guard them;

Brokenly over the plain receded the sorrowful remnant,

Choosing retreat through fire.

Even so, dragged back to the ocean,So have you seen on the shore, reluctant, and leaving behind itSwathes of the dark-red weed, and the beaten foam, and the leapingGasping silver life of the deep, and the tragical driftwood,Some great wave withdrawn, at the turn of the tide, from the floodmark.Sad it seethes back to the sea.

Even so, dragged back to the ocean,

So have you seen on the shore, reluctant, and leaving behind it

Swathes of the dark-red weed, and the beaten foam, and the leaping

Gasping silver life of the deep, and the tragical driftwood,

Some great wave withdrawn, at the turn of the tide, from the floodmark.

Sad it seethes back to the sea.

That was the turn of the war-tide,Ebb of the hope of the South, end of the Battle of Battles!

That was the turn of the war-tide,

Ebb of the hope of the South, end of the Battle of Battles!

Noon of the night was come; and over the field sacrificial,Over the trampled corn, and the broken trees, and the horror,—Horror of soulless pain of the beasts that perish unknowing,Horror of human ruin, the shattered sheaths of the spirit,Horror men pray to forget, and the tongue refuses to tell it,—Now was the taintless light of the large moon shed out of heaven,Glory unchanged as the Face of the Father of Lights, to whom upwardGropes the groaning world.On the sweet summer grass in the moonlight,Long, by the tent of his leader, a watcher lay patiently waiting,Waiting the great Gray Captain, so many times hailed as the victorOn those fields foregone; and the far-away cities had feared him.Ever with wild lost cry the whippoorwill cried in the woodland.Late, through the light of the moon, and the flickering shadow of branches,Lee came riding alone, the beloved magnanimous chieftain,All alone with defeat in the lucent night and the silence.Slowly he rode, as one who rides by the bier of a soldier,Hearing the muffled drums and the sob of a martial sorrow;Slowly he rode, with downcast head, and the deep moon-shadowLay underneath his brows. At the last, from his horse, overwearied,Hardly he might dismount; on the saddle heavily flingingOne lax arm, he stood awhile without word to the other;Moveless, horse and man, as if by the art of the sculptorWrought in enduring bronze for an everlasting remembrance.Still in his brain, unbidden, labored the pitiless hammersForging the things to be; and he saw the train of the wounded,Mile upon mile of moan, waggon to waggon succeeding,Crawl like a crippled snake painfully toward the Potomac;Saw his crippled Cause, as she dragged her way in the distanceDim, through fields of fire to a last sad field of surrender.—Memory, passionate, proud, sprang of a sudden resurgent;Swiftly he lived again the day, and beheld his VirginiansSplendidly sweep to the shock that the land shall remember forever;Flashed the ardent eyes, and the spell of his silence was broken.Proudly he spoke of the charge, in a voice that deepened and trembledNaming dear names of the dead; then turned to the task of the living,Motioned to enter the tent, and delivered the trust of the morrow.So the spark of pride, in the heart of the leader beloved,Kindled a fresh, false hope; and he sat by the flare of the candlePlanning the morrow’s course, and retrieval, if haply it might be.(Under the same clear moon, by the flow of the far Mississippi,Grant was waking too, the invincible taciturn soldierChosen of fate; in his tent, by the candle-light feeble and fitful,Writing the final terms of the longed-for surrender of Vicksburg.)Stars swept on, meanwhile, in their still, predestinate pathways;Mornward wheeled the world; and Time, inexhaustible Mother,Bore to us once again the Day of the birth of a NationSprung from the life-blood of heroes, and consecrated to Freedom.Guns of the Gettysburg heights, we hear you as out of the distance:Shall we not understand? Ye spake, in your awful contending,Words ye spake through the cloud, with austere oracular voices,Mighty reverberant watchwords of Titan-forces in conflict:Crying, “The sundered stars!” and replying “The heavens in their clusters,Led in the lines of law, and linked in their differing gloryStar unto star to the end, until God folds them up as a vesture!”Crying, “Fit rule of the Few, and a serfdom meet for the Many!”Thundering out of the smoke, as the Voice on the summit of Sinai,—Then on the great Third Day, when the trumpet was loud, and the lightningsLeaped in the mount, and the people fell down at the Voice of Jehovah,—Thundering out of the smoke with the final august proclamation:“Nay! but the larger Hope, and the limitless future of Manhood!”(Nathless a nation elect, a people led forth out of bondage,Led of the cloud and led of the fire, and upheld in the battle,Borne upon wings of eagles, and saved in the midst of the waters,Made to them gods of gold, even there, in the desert of Sinai.)Guns of the Gettysburg heights, we hear you as out of the distance:Cease not to roll, vast Echoes! Reverberate solemn, immortal!Speak to us out of the past of the splendor of valor triumphant,Speak of the splendor of valor transcending defeat, of the manhoodTried to the utmost, and true to some lofty and ultimate brightnessSecretly set above self: O speak, that we too in our measure,—Fallen on diverse days, far otherwise tempted and tested,—Work the Eternal Will, in the chaos a force of salvation,Motes of the dust as it streams, yet touched with the light of God’s purpose!

Noon of the night was come; and over the field sacrificial,

Over the trampled corn, and the broken trees, and the horror,—

Horror of soulless pain of the beasts that perish unknowing,

Horror of human ruin, the shattered sheaths of the spirit,

Horror men pray to forget, and the tongue refuses to tell it,—

Now was the taintless light of the large moon shed out of heaven,

Glory unchanged as the Face of the Father of Lights, to whom upward

Gropes the groaning world.

On the sweet summer grass in the moonlight,Long, by the tent of his leader, a watcher lay patiently waiting,Waiting the great Gray Captain, so many times hailed as the victorOn those fields foregone; and the far-away cities had feared him.Ever with wild lost cry the whippoorwill cried in the woodland.Late, through the light of the moon, and the flickering shadow of branches,Lee came riding alone, the beloved magnanimous chieftain,All alone with defeat in the lucent night and the silence.Slowly he rode, as one who rides by the bier of a soldier,Hearing the muffled drums and the sob of a martial sorrow;Slowly he rode, with downcast head, and the deep moon-shadowLay underneath his brows. At the last, from his horse, overwearied,Hardly he might dismount; on the saddle heavily flingingOne lax arm, he stood awhile without word to the other;Moveless, horse and man, as if by the art of the sculptorWrought in enduring bronze for an everlasting remembrance.Still in his brain, unbidden, labored the pitiless hammersForging the things to be; and he saw the train of the wounded,Mile upon mile of moan, waggon to waggon succeeding,Crawl like a crippled snake painfully toward the Potomac;Saw his crippled Cause, as she dragged her way in the distanceDim, through fields of fire to a last sad field of surrender.—Memory, passionate, proud, sprang of a sudden resurgent;Swiftly he lived again the day, and beheld his VirginiansSplendidly sweep to the shock that the land shall remember forever;Flashed the ardent eyes, and the spell of his silence was broken.Proudly he spoke of the charge, in a voice that deepened and trembledNaming dear names of the dead; then turned to the task of the living,Motioned to enter the tent, and delivered the trust of the morrow.

On the sweet summer grass in the moonlight,

Long, by the tent of his leader, a watcher lay patiently waiting,

Waiting the great Gray Captain, so many times hailed as the victor

On those fields foregone; and the far-away cities had feared him.

Ever with wild lost cry the whippoorwill cried in the woodland.

Late, through the light of the moon, and the flickering shadow of branches,

Lee came riding alone, the beloved magnanimous chieftain,

All alone with defeat in the lucent night and the silence.

Slowly he rode, as one who rides by the bier of a soldier,

Hearing the muffled drums and the sob of a martial sorrow;

Slowly he rode, with downcast head, and the deep moon-shadow

Lay underneath his brows. At the last, from his horse, overwearied,

Hardly he might dismount; on the saddle heavily flinging

One lax arm, he stood awhile without word to the other;

Moveless, horse and man, as if by the art of the sculptor

Wrought in enduring bronze for an everlasting remembrance.

Still in his brain, unbidden, labored the pitiless hammers

Forging the things to be; and he saw the train of the wounded,

Mile upon mile of moan, waggon to waggon succeeding,

Crawl like a crippled snake painfully toward the Potomac;

Saw his crippled Cause, as she dragged her way in the distance

Dim, through fields of fire to a last sad field of surrender.

—Memory, passionate, proud, sprang of a sudden resurgent;

Swiftly he lived again the day, and beheld his Virginians

Splendidly sweep to the shock that the land shall remember forever;

Flashed the ardent eyes, and the spell of his silence was broken.

Proudly he spoke of the charge, in a voice that deepened and trembled

Naming dear names of the dead; then turned to the task of the living,

Motioned to enter the tent, and delivered the trust of the morrow.

So the spark of pride, in the heart of the leader beloved,Kindled a fresh, false hope; and he sat by the flare of the candlePlanning the morrow’s course, and retrieval, if haply it might be.(Under the same clear moon, by the flow of the far Mississippi,Grant was waking too, the invincible taciturn soldierChosen of fate; in his tent, by the candle-light feeble and fitful,Writing the final terms of the longed-for surrender of Vicksburg.)Stars swept on, meanwhile, in their still, predestinate pathways;Mornward wheeled the world; and Time, inexhaustible Mother,Bore to us once again the Day of the birth of a NationSprung from the life-blood of heroes, and consecrated to Freedom.

So the spark of pride, in the heart of the leader beloved,

Kindled a fresh, false hope; and he sat by the flare of the candle

Planning the morrow’s course, and retrieval, if haply it might be.

(Under the same clear moon, by the flow of the far Mississippi,

Grant was waking too, the invincible taciturn soldier

Chosen of fate; in his tent, by the candle-light feeble and fitful,

Writing the final terms of the longed-for surrender of Vicksburg.)

Stars swept on, meanwhile, in their still, predestinate pathways;

Mornward wheeled the world; and Time, inexhaustible Mother,

Bore to us once again the Day of the birth of a Nation

Sprung from the life-blood of heroes, and consecrated to Freedom.

Guns of the Gettysburg heights, we hear you as out of the distance:Shall we not understand? Ye spake, in your awful contending,Words ye spake through the cloud, with austere oracular voices,Mighty reverberant watchwords of Titan-forces in conflict:Crying, “The sundered stars!” and replying “The heavens in their clusters,Led in the lines of law, and linked in their differing gloryStar unto star to the end, until God folds them up as a vesture!”Crying, “Fit rule of the Few, and a serfdom meet for the Many!”Thundering out of the smoke, as the Voice on the summit of Sinai,—Then on the great Third Day, when the trumpet was loud, and the lightningsLeaped in the mount, and the people fell down at the Voice of Jehovah,—Thundering out of the smoke with the final august proclamation:“Nay! but the larger Hope, and the limitless future of Manhood!”

Guns of the Gettysburg heights, we hear you as out of the distance:

Shall we not understand? Ye spake, in your awful contending,

Words ye spake through the cloud, with austere oracular voices,

Mighty reverberant watchwords of Titan-forces in conflict:

Crying, “The sundered stars!” and replying “The heavens in their clusters,

Led in the lines of law, and linked in their differing glory

Star unto star to the end, until God folds them up as a vesture!”

Crying, “Fit rule of the Few, and a serfdom meet for the Many!”

Thundering out of the smoke, as the Voice on the summit of Sinai,—

Then on the great Third Day, when the trumpet was loud, and the lightnings

Leaped in the mount, and the people fell down at the Voice of Jehovah,—

Thundering out of the smoke with the final august proclamation:

“Nay! but the larger Hope, and the limitless future of Manhood!”

(Nathless a nation elect, a people led forth out of bondage,Led of the cloud and led of the fire, and upheld in the battle,Borne upon wings of eagles, and saved in the midst of the waters,Made to them gods of gold, even there, in the desert of Sinai.)

(Nathless a nation elect, a people led forth out of bondage,

Led of the cloud and led of the fire, and upheld in the battle,

Borne upon wings of eagles, and saved in the midst of the waters,

Made to them gods of gold, even there, in the desert of Sinai.)

Guns of the Gettysburg heights, we hear you as out of the distance:Cease not to roll, vast Echoes! Reverberate solemn, immortal!Speak to us out of the past of the splendor of valor triumphant,Speak of the splendor of valor transcending defeat, of the manhoodTried to the utmost, and true to some lofty and ultimate brightnessSecretly set above self: O speak, that we too in our measure,—Fallen on diverse days, far otherwise tempted and tested,—Work the Eternal Will, in the chaos a force of salvation,Motes of the dust as it streams, yet touched with the light of God’s purpose!

Guns of the Gettysburg heights, we hear you as out of the distance:

Cease not to roll, vast Echoes! Reverberate solemn, immortal!

Speak to us out of the past of the splendor of valor triumphant,

Speak of the splendor of valor transcending defeat, of the manhood

Tried to the utmost, and true to some lofty and ultimate brightness

Secretly set above self: O speak, that we too in our measure,—

Fallen on diverse days, far otherwise tempted and tested,—

Work the Eternal Will, in the chaos a force of salvation,

Motes of the dust as it streams, yet touched with the light of God’s purpose!

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