And "the hearts of distant mountains
Shuddered," with a fearful wonder,
As the echoes burst upon them
Of the cannon's awful thunder.
Through the long hours waged the battle
Till the setting of the sun
Dropped a seal upon the record,
That the day's mad work was done.
V.
Thickly on the trampled grasses
Lay the battle's awful traces,
'Mid the blood-stained clover-blossoms
Lay the stark and ghastly faces,
With no mourners bending downward
O'er a costly funeral pall;
And the dying daylight softly,
With the starlight watched o'er all.
VI.
And, where eager, joyous footsteps
Once perchance were wont to pass,
Ran a little streamlet making
One "blue fold in the dark grass;"
And where, from its hidden fountain,
Clear and bright the brooklet burst
Two had crawled, and each was bending
O'er to slake his burning thirst.
VII.
Then beneath the solemn starlight
Of the radiant jewelled skies,
Both had turned, and were intently
Gazing in each other's eyes.
Both were solemnly forgiving--
Hushed the pulse of passion's breath--
Calmed the maddening thirst for battle,
By the chilling hand of death.
VIII.
Then spoke one, in bitter anguish:
"God have pity on my wife,
And my children, in New Hampshire;
Orphans by this cruel strife."
And the other, leaning closer,
Underneath the solemn sky,
Bowed his head to hide the moisture
Gathering in his downcast eye: