THE CAVALRY CHARGE.
By BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR.
And the troopers sit in their saddles all Like statues carved in an ancient hall, And they watch the whirl from their breathless ranks, And their spurs are close to the horses’ flanks, And the fingers work of the sabre hand— Oh, to bid them live, and to make them grand! And the bugle sounds to the charge at last, And away they plunge, and the front is passed! And the jackets blue grow red as they ride, And the scabbards too, that clank by their side, And the dead soldiers deaden the strokes iron-shod As they gallop right on o’er the plashy red sod— Right into the cloud all spectral and dim, Right up to the guns black-throated and grim, Right down on the hedges bordered with steel, Right through the dense columns—then “Right about wheel!” Hurrah! a new swath through the harvest again! Hurrah for the Flag! To the battle, Amen!
