Yet underneath the cloud, as a strong wave under the sea-mist,
Rolled the lessening line, steadily, steadily onward.
Rifle-bolt, round-shot, and shell, from the right, from the left of them raking,
Buzzing and screaming and bursting, harrowed the ranks of them redly;
Strangely the Centre was silent,—the Centre, and eyes of the captains
Fixed, in the storm, on the landmark, the dark little cluster of oak-trees
Faintly and fitfully seen, and the low stone wall through the smoke-veil.
Mingled anon in the whirl the whistle and whip of the bullets
Sped from the sharpshooters’ rifles; anon in the iron confusion,
Musketry crashed on the flank; and now on the breast of the column