Far from the haunts of men remote, The brook brawled on with a liquid note; And Nature, all tranquil and lovely, wore The smile of the spring, as in Eden of yore.
Little by little, as daylight increased, And deepened the roseate flush in the East— Little by little did morning reveal Two long glittering lines of steel;
Where two hundred thousand bayonets gleam, Tipped with the light of the earliest beam, And the faces are sullen and grim to see In the hostile armies of Grant and Lee.
All of a sudden, ere rose the sun, Pealed on the silence the opening gun— A little white puff of smoke there came, And anon the valley was wreathed in flame.
Down on the left of the Rebel lines, Where a breastwork stands in a copse of pines, Before the Rebels their ranks can form, The Yankees have carried the place by storm.
Stars and Stripes on the salient wave, Where many a hero has found a grave, And the gallant Confederates strive in vain The ground they have drenched with their blood, to regain.
Yet louder the thunder of battle roared— Yet a deadlier fire on the columns poured; Slaughter infernal rode with Despair, Furies twain, through the murky air.
Not far off, in the saddle there sat A gray-bearded man in a black slouched hat; Not much moved by the fire was he, Calm and resolute Robert Lee.
Quick and watchful he kept his eye On the bold Rebel brigades close by,— Reserves that were standing (and dying) at ease, While the tempest of wrath toppled over the trees.
For still with their loud, deep, bull-dog bay, The Yankee batteries blazed away, And with every murderous second that sped A dozen brave fellows, alas! fell dead.