With the constant boom of cannon—Battle’s diapason rose!
All was chaos; while, like lightning, sword and lance and bayonet
Flashed around, as desperate men in the deadly mêlée met.
Hand to hand, and foot to foot, through the ascending clouds of smoke,
On the enemy, through them, over them, gallantly our soldiers broke,
Dealing death at every stroke: then we heard the shout of May,
And beheld his brave dragoons for an instant line the way:
Ridgely’s voice—the roar of cannon—clashing sabres—dying cries —
Rose distinct, yet intermingled as a chorus, toward the skies,
As the vapor separated, dashing down the rough ravine,