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The clouds beneath them lie,
And down afar it seems a war
Of demons in the sky.
Round them rolls the sulph'rous smoke
That follows ball and bomb,
While thunders boom, as if the doom
Of all the earth had come.
They reach the very last redoubt,
Hell yawns at every fire;
Midst sword and lead, o'er piles of dead,
The rebel hordes retire;
And routed, scattered, and dismayed,
Far flee these lords of slaves,
While flashing bright, on every height,
The flag of freedom waves!
All honor, then, to all our men,
To leaders and to guard,
Who bared their life in mortal strife,
Or who kept watch and ward;
And praises to the Lord of Hosts,
Whom nations must obey,
That he did bide, all by our side,
On Chattanooga's day!
Let holy tears bedew the graves
Of those who fell in fight;
Let marble stones, above their bones,
Salute the morning light;
Let history write in golden books;
Let bards with song enshrine;
Let women chant the name of Grant,
And the glory of the Line!
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