One huge host as a sword, untried in its strength or its weakness,
Unknown hand of Meade, at the southward uncertainly groping?
Stirred with a dream of dread was the little town as it slumbered;
Sudden it started and woke.
—Through the hush of the young, hot morning
One sharp shot, and another—and born was the Battle of Battles!
Long had the good land lain in the sun and the rain, with its ridges,
Rich broad fields for the farmer, and hills dark-fledged with the forests;
Yet was the end ordained of the old earth’s writhing and travail
Neither the breathing beauty of grainfields, nor wealth of the harvest,