The grand old gray-beard rode to the space Where Death and his victims stood face to face, And silently waved his old slouched hat— A world of meaning there was in that!
“Follow me! Steady! We’ll save the day!” This was what he seemed to say; And to the light of his glorious eye The bold brigades thus made reply:
“We’ll go forward, but you must go back”— And they moved not an inch in the perilous track: “Go to the rear, and we’ll send them to hell!” And the sound of the battle was lost in their yell.
Turning his bridle, Robert Lee Rode to the rear. Like waves of the sea, Bursting the dikes in their overflow, Madly his veterans dashed on the foe.
And backward in terror that foe was driven, Their banners rent and their columns riven, Wherever the tide of battle rolled Over the Wilderness, wood and wold.
Sunset out of a crimson sky Streamed o’er a field of ruddier dye, And the brook ran on with a purple stain, From the blood of ten thousand foemen slain.
Seasons have passed since that day and year— Again o’er its pebbles the brook runs clear, And the field in a richer green is drest Where the dead of a terrible conflict rest.
Hushed is the roll of the Rebel drum, The sabres are sheathed, and the cannon are dumb; And Fate, with his pitiless hand, has furled The flag that once challenged the gaze of the world;
But the fame of the Wilderness fight abides; And down into history grandly rides, Calm and unmoved as in battle he sat, The gray-bearded man in the black slouched hat.
[Southern.]