At Gettysburg
THE Repulse OF P ICKETT'S C HARGE J ULY 3, 1863
The flame and the smoke of battle surged over the Round Top's crest,
The whistle of shot, and the rattle of muskets that knew no rest,
The flashing of steel grown gory, the shouting that rose and fell,
Where over the hill-tops hoary went shrieking the vicious shell,
Were mingled in wild derision, and faces all sternly white
Shone out as they shine in a vision, as deepened the deadly fight.
We could see, through the vapor lying low down like a sulphurous cloud,
The flags in the long lines flying, where our dead lay waiting the shroud,
We could see the bayonets gleaming, and felt in the wind's low breath,
The cold, damp moisture, seeming like the swift, chill kiss of death,
And hands that were hard from labor, where the harvest fields were large,
Closed firm on musket and sabre, and waited the foeman's charge.
Then up from the moaning valley, like a wave white-crowned with foam.
While shrill rose the bugles' rally far along the wooded dome,
The foe in his might came sweeping, and the shell grew swift again,
And the riderless steeds went leaping through struggling mazes of men,
And cries that with death were bitter, and blows that with rage were keen,
Were loud where the bayonet's glitter grew red in a sanguine sheen.
Back, back like the tiger bating each step with a hate that grieves
For the hours and the thirst of waiting, and the blood on the trampled leaves,
Back, step by step, while the beating of our hearts grew fast and warm,
And we bent like the tree-tops meeting the fierce first rush of the storm,
Bent, only to rise in passion, and smite with the blows that sting,
As the tiger his foe will dash on with gripe, and clutching, and spring.
Men die, but their deeds are lasting, they shine through all the years,
And nerve us to bear earth's fasting, its sorrow, and falling tears,
And there, while just before us, the foe in his might was strong,
Loud sounded the swelling chorus of right that had conquered wrong,
And fast were the swift blows falling where the guns were hot with flame,
For the dead from their graves were calling, the dead who had left us fame.
From the fields of wheat, down-trodden, from the orchards rent and torn,
From the grass grown red and sodden with the strife that woke the morn,
Men, who had met the waking of the day with eyes that shone,
And hearts that had known no quaking, stared up in the death sleep prone;
And we who had stood beside them when the rain of lead smote hard,
Now fought for a place to hide them among the sand and the shard.
Swift, swift was the foe, and louder rose his fierce triumphant cry,
And the sulphurous fumes of powder seemed like a pall to lie,
As back to the hills he thrust us in a path where death was king,
And we thought that the cause of justice no strength to our arms could bring,
And still the hot guns bellow, and their flame came thick and fast,
Till the leaves grew wan and yellow in that dire sirocco blast.
With blows to their blows replying, with swords that were swift to smite,
With vengeance unto us crying, we sprang again to the fight,
And keen was our steel, and ready the answer it gave to our call,
And onward with footsteps steady, we pressed our foe to the wall,
Back, over the path so gory with the blood of our comrades slain,
But their's, yea, their's were the glory should our flag sweep over the plain.
Like rain by the wild winds driven that leaves neither blossoms nor grass
There where the dead lay unshriven, like a swarth of flame we pass,
Pass, leaving the heights, and holding our way to the plain once more,
With the hot white smoke enfolding the pathway lying before,
And over the fierce, infernal red rush of the strife below,
The pines, with their vesture vernal, are loud with the shrieks of woe.
Who noted the high sun's splendor? who heeded the cries of pain?
Yea, even though hearts were tender with tears that are soft as rain?
We were wild with the thirst so olden, the thirst that but death can slake,
Or the gift of the fame crown golden, yea, even though hearts should break:
And back, while the blood like water along our pathway flowed,
With horrible carnage and slaughter we drove our foe in his road.
And the guns were fierce, and the thunder of battle was loud in the land,
Till his line was riven asunder, and weakened his ready hand;
And we knew, as we heard the cheering that rose as we forward rolled,
That the end of the strife was nearing, and the foe had lost his hold,
Knew, though not a word was spoken, as our way we onward bore,
That the strength of his arm was broken, and the field was ours once more.
The years in their might are growing, like a dream the old days come,
When the battle was 'round us flowing, and we sprang to the call of the drum;
Each day we are less in number, and our ranks are narrowing fast,
But sweet is the final slumber, now the days of strife are past;
And never may hate's wide portal be opened again to us here,
For only love is immortal where the light of God shines clear.
The flame and the smoke of battle surged over the Round Top's crest,
The whistle of shot, and the rattle of muskets that knew no rest,
The flashing of steel grown gory, the shouting that rose and fell,
Where over the hill-tops hoary went shrieking the vicious shell,
Were mingled in wild derision, and faces all sternly white
Shone out as they shine in a vision, as deepened the deadly fight.
We could see, through the vapor lying low down like a sulphurous cloud,
The flags in the long lines flying, where our dead lay waiting the shroud,
We could see the bayonets gleaming, and felt in the wind's low breath,
The cold, damp moisture, seeming like the swift, chill kiss of death,
And hands that were hard from labor, where the harvest fields were large,
Closed firm on musket and sabre, and waited the foeman's charge.
Then up from the moaning valley, like a wave white-crowned with foam.
While shrill rose the bugles' rally far along the wooded dome,
The foe in his might came sweeping, and the shell grew swift again,
And the riderless steeds went leaping through struggling mazes of men,
And cries that with death were bitter, and blows that with rage were keen,
Were loud where the bayonet's glitter grew red in a sanguine sheen.
Back, back like the tiger bating each step with a hate that grieves
For the hours and the thirst of waiting, and the blood on the trampled leaves,
Back, step by step, while the beating of our hearts grew fast and warm,
And we bent like the tree-tops meeting the fierce first rush of the storm,
Bent, only to rise in passion, and smite with the blows that sting,
As the tiger his foe will dash on with gripe, and clutching, and spring.
Men die, but their deeds are lasting, they shine through all the years,
And nerve us to bear earth's fasting, its sorrow, and falling tears,
And there, while just before us, the foe in his might was strong,
Loud sounded the swelling chorus of right that had conquered wrong,
And fast were the swift blows falling where the guns were hot with flame,
For the dead from their graves were calling, the dead who had left us fame.
From the fields of wheat, down-trodden, from the orchards rent and torn,
From the grass grown red and sodden with the strife that woke the morn,
Men, who had met the waking of the day with eyes that shone,
And hearts that had known no quaking, stared up in the death sleep prone;
And we who had stood beside them when the rain of lead smote hard,
Now fought for a place to hide them among the sand and the shard.
Swift, swift was the foe, and louder rose his fierce triumphant cry,
And the sulphurous fumes of powder seemed like a pall to lie,
As back to the hills he thrust us in a path where death was king,
And we thought that the cause of justice no strength to our arms could bring,
And still the hot guns bellow, and their flame came thick and fast,
Till the leaves grew wan and yellow in that dire sirocco blast.
With blows to their blows replying, with swords that were swift to smite,
With vengeance unto us crying, we sprang again to the fight,
And keen was our steel, and ready the answer it gave to our call,
And onward with footsteps steady, we pressed our foe to the wall,
Back, over the path so gory with the blood of our comrades slain,
But their's, yea, their's were the glory should our flag sweep over the plain.
Like rain by the wild winds driven that leaves neither blossoms nor grass
There where the dead lay unshriven, like a swarth of flame we pass,
Pass, leaving the heights, and holding our way to the plain once more,
With the hot white smoke enfolding the pathway lying before,
And over the fierce, infernal red rush of the strife below,
The pines, with their vesture vernal, are loud with the shrieks of woe.
Who noted the high sun's splendor? who heeded the cries of pain?
Yea, even though hearts were tender with tears that are soft as rain?
We were wild with the thirst so olden, the thirst that but death can slake,
Or the gift of the fame crown golden, yea, even though hearts should break:
And back, while the blood like water along our pathway flowed,
With horrible carnage and slaughter we drove our foe in his road.
And the guns were fierce, and the thunder of battle was loud in the land,
Till his line was riven asunder, and weakened his ready hand;
And we knew, as we heard the cheering that rose as we forward rolled,
That the end of the strife was nearing, and the foe had lost his hold,
Knew, though not a word was spoken, as our way we onward bore,
That the strength of his arm was broken, and the field was ours once more.
The years in their might are growing, like a dream the old days come,
When the battle was 'round us flowing, and we sprang to the call of the drum;
Each day we are less in number, and our ranks are narrowing fast,
But sweet is the final slumber, now the days of strife are past;
And never may hate's wide portal be opened again to us here,
For only love is immortal where the light of God shines clear.
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