[519]
Where two hundred thousand bayonets gleam,
Tipped with the light of the earliest beam,
And the faces are sullen and grim to see,
In the hostile armies of Grant and Lee.
All of a sudden, ere rose the sun,
Pealed on the silence the opening gun--
A little white puff of smoke there came,
And anon the valley was wreathed in flame.
Down on the left of the Rebel lines,
Where a breastwork stands in a copse of pines,
Before the Rebels their ranks can form,
The Yankees have carried the place by storm.
Stars and stripes o'er the salient wave,
Where many a hero has found his grave,
And the gallant Confederates strive in vain
The ground they have drenched with their blood to regain!
Yet louder the thunder of battle roared,
Yet a deadlier fire on their columns poured--
Slaughter infernal rode with despair,
Furies twain, through the smoky air.
Not far off, in the saddle, there sat
A grey-bearded man, with a black slouch hat,
Not much moved by the fire was he,
Calm and resolute, Robert Lee.
Quick and watchful, he kept his eye
On two bold Rebel brigades close by--
Reserves, that were standing (and dying) at ease,
Where the tempest of wrath toppled over the trees.
For still with their loud, deep, bull-dog bay,
The Yankee batteries blazed away,
And with every murderous second that sped,
A dozen brave fellows, alas!
fell dead.
The grand old gray-beard rode to the space,
Where Death and his victims stood face to face,
And silently waved his old slouch hat--
A world of meaning there was in that!
“Follow me!
Steady! We'll save the day!”
This is what he seemed to say;
And to the light of his glorious eye
The bold brigades thus made reply:
This text is part of:
Richmond, VA. 1882.
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