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!