V
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-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 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.