When the battle went ill, and the bravest were solemn,
Near the dark Seven Pines, where we still held our ground,
He rode down the length of the withering column,
And his heart at our war-cry leapt up with a bound;
He snuffed, like his charger, the wind of the powder,—
His sword waved us on and we answered the sign;
Loud our cheer as we rushed, but his laugh rang the louder.
"There's the devil's own fun, boys, along the whole line!"
How he strode his brown steed! How we saw his blade brighten
In the one hand still left,—and the reins in his teeth!
He laughed like a boy when the holidays heighten,
But a soldier's glance shot from his visor beneath.
Up came the reserves to the mellay infernal,
Asking where to go in,—through the clearing or pine?
"Oh, anywhere! Forward! 'Tis all the same, Colonel:
You'll find lovely fighting along the whole line!"
Oh, evil the black shroud of night at Chantilly,
That hid him from sight of his brave men and tried!
Foul, foul sped the bullet that clipped the white lily,
The flower of our knighthood, the whole army's pride!
Yet we dream that he still,—in that shadowy region
Where the dead form their ranks at the wan drummer's sign,—
Rides on, as of old, down the length of his legion,
And the word still is "Forward!" along the whole line.
Edmund Clarence Stedman.
For nearly a month after this battle, the Army of the Potomac lay along the Chickahominy, within a few miles of Richmond, while the Confederates concentrated their forces, under Robert E. Lee, for the defence of the city. On June 14, 1862, General J. E. B. Stuart, with a force of fifteen hundred cavalry, circled the Union position, destroyed stores, seized mules and horses, took nearly two hundred prisoners, and returned leisurely to Richmond. Captain Latané was killed in a skirmish during this expedition.
THE BURIAL OF LATANÉ
[June 14, 1862]
The combat raged not long, but ours the day;
And, through the hosts that compassed us around,
Our little band rode proudly on its way,
Leaving one gallant comrade, glory-crowned,
Unburied on the field he died to gain—
Single of all his men, amid the hostile slain.
One moment on the battle's edge he stood—
Hope's halo, like a helmet, round his hair;
The next beheld him, dabbled in his blood,
Prostrate in death—and yet, in death how fair!
Even thus he passed through the red gates of strife,
From earthly crowns and palms, to an immortal life.
A brother bore his body from the field,
And gave it unto strangers' hands, that closed
The calm blue eyes on earth forever sealed,
And tenderly the slender limbs composed:
Strangers, yet sisters, who, with Mary's love,
Sat by the open tomb, and, weeping, looked above.