And now there breathed that haunted air
The sons of sires who conquered there,
With arms to strike and souls to dare
As quick, as far as they!
· · · · ·
He woke to die ‘mid flame and smoke,
And shout, and groan, and sabre stroke,
And death shots falling thick and fast
As lightning from a mountain cloud.—Fitz Green Halleck.
“There is our new rendezvous,” said Colonel Goldsborough, pointing to the distant range of wooded hills, where the autumn foliage was now glowing redly under the rays of the descending sun, and towards which the whole band was now moving leisurely.