"That Meade would choose his battle-ground we knew,
And if not his the gallant dash and dare
That on Antietam's bloody battle-field
Snatched victory from defeat, our faith was firm
That he would fight to win, and hold the reins
Firmly in hand, nor sacrifice our lives
In wild assaults and fruitless daring deeds.
"From Taneytown, at mid-day, on the hills
Of Gettysburg we heard the cannon boom.
Our gallant Hancock rode full speed away;
We under Gibbon swiftly following him
At midnight camped on Cemetery Hill.
Sharp the initial combat of the grand
On-coming battle, and the sulphurous smoke
Hung in blue wreaths above the silent vale
Between two hostile armies, mightier far
Than met upon the field of Marathon.
Or where the proud Carthago bowed to Rome.
Hope of the North and Liberty—the one;
Pride of the South—the other. On the hills—
A rolling range of rugged, broken hills,
Stretching from Round-Top northward, bending off
And butting down upon a silver stream—
In open field our veteran regiments lay.
Facing our battle-line and parallel—
Beyond the golden valley to the west—
Lay Seminary Ridge—a crest of hills
Covered with emerald groves and fields of gold
Ripe for the harvest: on this rolling range,
As numerous as the swarming ocean-fowl
That perch in squadrons on some barren isle
Far in the Arctic sea when summer's sun
With slanting spears invades the icy realm,
The Southern legions lay upon their arms.
As countless as the winter-evening stars
That glint and glow above the frosted fields
Twinkled and blazed upon that crest of hills
The camp-fires of the foe. Two mighty hosts,
Ready and panoplied for deadliest war,
And eager for the combat where the prize
Of victory was empire—for the foe
An empire borne upon the bended backs
Of toiling slaves in millions—but for us,
An empire grounded on the rights of man—
Lay on their arms awaiting innocent morn
To light the field for slaughter to begin.
"Silent above us spread the dusky heavens,
Silent below us lay the smoky vale,
Silent beyond, the dreadful crest of hills.
Anon the neigh of horse, a sentry's call,
Or rapid hoof-beats of a flying steed
Bearing an aid and orders, broke the dread,
Portentous silence. I was worn and slept.
"The call of bugles wakened me. The dawn
Was stealing softly o'er the shadowy land,
And morning grew apace. Broad in the east
Uprose above the crest of hazy hills
Like some broad shield by fabled giant borne,
The golden sun, and flashed upon the field.
Ripe for the harvest stood the golden grain,
Nodding on gentle slopes and dewy hills.
Ready for the harvest death's grim reapers stood
Waiting the signal with impatient steel;
And morning passed, and mid-day. Here and there
The crack of rifles on the picket-line,
Or boom of solitary cannon broke
The myriad-voiced and dreadful monotone.
So fled the anxious hours until the hills
Sent forth their silent shadows to the east—
And then their batteries opened on our left
Advanced into the valley. All along
The rolling crest of Seminary Ridge
Rolled up the smoke of cannon. Answered then
The grim artillery on our chain of hills'
And heaven was hideous with the bellowing boom,
The whiz of shot, the infernal shrieks of shells.
Down from the hills their charging columns came
A glittering mass of steel. As when the snow
Piled by an hundred winters on the peak
Of cloud-robed Bernard thunders down the cliffs,
Nor rocks nor forests stay the mighty mass,
And men and flocks in terror fly the death,
So thundering fell the columns of the foe,
Crushing through Sickles' corps in front and flank;
And, roaring onward like a mighty wind,
They rushed for Little Round-Top—rugged hill,
Key to our left and center—all exposed—
Manned by a broken battery half unmanned.
But Hancock saw the peril. On stalwart steed
Foam-flecked, wide-nostriled, panting like a hound,
That stalwart soldier—Spartan to the soles—
Came dashing down where, prone along the ridge
Upon the right, our sheltered regiment lay.
'By the left flank, forward—double-quick!'—We sprang
And dashed for Little Round-Top; formed our line
Flanking the broken battery. Up the slope,
Like frightened sheep when howling wolves pursue,
Fled Sickles' men in panic: hard behind
On came the Rebel columns. Hat in hand
Waving and shouting to his eager corps—
Rode gallant Longstreet leading on the foe.
"Where yonder field-wall bounds the trampled wheat
By grove and meadow, see—among the trees—
Their bayonets gleam advancing. Line on line,
Column on column, in the field beyond,
Their hurrying ranks crowd glittering on and on.
High at the head their flaunting colors fly;
High o'er the roar their wild, triumphant yell
Shrills like the scream of panthers.
"Hancock's voice
Rang down our lines above the cannons' roar:
'Advance, and take those colors'[[C]]—Adown the slope
Like Bengal tigers springing at the hounds,
We sprang and met them at the border wall:
Muzzle to muzzle—steel to steel—we met,
And fought like Romans and like Romans fell.
Even as a cyclone, growling thunder, roars
Down through a dusky forest, and its path
Is strown with broken and uprooted pines
Promiscuous piled in broad and broken swaths,
So crashed our volleys through their serried ranks,
Mowing great swaths of death; yet on and on,
Closing the gaps and yelling like the fiends
That Dante heard along the gulf of hell,
Still came our furious foes. A cloud of smoke—
Dense, sulphurous, stifling—covered all our ranks.
Our steady, deadly rifles crackled still,
And still their crashing volleys rolled and roared.
Our rifles blazed upon the blaze below;
The blaze below upon the blaze above,
And in the blaze the buzz of myriad bees
Whose stings were deadlier than the Libyan asp.
Five times our colors fell—five times arose
Defiant, flapping on the broken wall.
"We hold the perilous breach; on either hand
Our foes out-flank us, leap the sheltering wall
And pour their deadly, enfilading fire.
God shield our shattered ranks!—God help us!
"Ho!
'Stars and Stripes' on the right!—Hurra!—Hurra!
The Green Mountain Boys to our aid!—Hurra!—Hurra.
Cannon-roar down on the left!—Our batteries are there—
Hurling hot hell-fire'—See!—like sickled corn
The close-ranked foemen fall in toppling swaths:
But still with hurried steps and steady steel
They close the gaps—like madmen they press on!
With one wild yell they rush upon the wall!
Lo from our lines a sheet of crackling fire
Scorches their grimy faces—back they reel
And tumble—down and down—a writhing mass
Of slaughter and defeat!
"Leaped on the wall
A thousand Blues and swung their caps in air,
Thundering their wild Hurra! above the roar
And crash of cannon;—victory was ours.
Back to his crest of hills the baffled foe
Reluctant turned and fled the storm of death.
"The smoke of battle floated from the field,
And lo the woodside piled with slaughter-heaps!
And lo the meadow dotted with the slain!
And lo the ranks of dead and dying men
That fighting fell behind the broken wall!