There were the very sons of the well-loved soil they defended,
Stretched by the low stone wall and the dark little cluster of oak-trees.
There were the lads of Vermont, fresh to the field, with equipments
Glittering,—gallant to see as the folds of a clear-colored ensign
Newly upreared on the staff, floating out stainless and splendid;
There too, knit in its place, was the shred of the First Minnesota,
Left from the Second Day’s charge when it flung itself in as a stop-gap,
Stirring to see as the shred of the battle-burnt colors left clinging
Blackened and rent, to the staff, and advanced in the forefront of danger.
Nay, nor alone the shoots of the rooted stock of the fathers