"Ill fed, ill clad, and shelterless,
How little cheer in health we know!
When wounds and illness lay us low,
How comfortless our sore distress!
"These flimsy rags, that scarcely hide
Our forms, can naught discourage us;
But Hunger—ah! it may be thus
That Fortune shall the strife decide.
"But while the corn-fields give supply
We'll take, content, the roasting-ear,
Nor yield us yet to craven fear,
But still press on, to do or die:"
ED. PORTER THOMPSON.
* * * * *
THE HIGH TIDE AT GETTYSBURG.
[July 3, 1863.]
A cloud possessed the hollow field.
The gathering battle's smoky shield.
Athwart the gloom the lightning flashed,
And through the cloud some horsemen dashed,
And from the heights the thunder pealed.
Then at the brief command of Lee
Moved out that matchless infantry,
With Pickett leading grandly down,
To rush against the roaring crown
Of those dread heights of destiny.
Far heard above the angry guns
A cry across the tumult runs,—
The voice that rang through Shiloh's woods
And Chickamanga's solitudes,
The fierce South cheering on her sons!