Soldiers of the light

by Helen Gray Cone

Knowing men’s need of a man. In the fury of sound, and the frantic

Shriek of the battery horses, and hell-blaze of caissons exploding,

Reared the black charger he rode; yet persisted the resolute rider,

Masterful, mounted afresh; and along the line ran the murmur,

Flame on a dry field’s edge, “Hancock, it’s Hancock!” and freshly

Kindled the cheer as he passed.

So they lay in the line, with the muskets

Clutched in the hard hands, ready; the men of New York and New Jersey,

Delaware’s sons, and Maine’s, and the close-coupled, war-welded comrades,

Stalwart Michigan men and the soldiers of old Massachusetts.