And the glintings of glory that slid from her track
By the sheen of our rifles were gayly flung back,—
"Column! Forward!"
And the woodlands grew purple with sunshiny mist,
And the blue-crested hill-tops with rose-light were kissed,
And the earth gave her prayers to the sun in perfumes,
Till we marched as through gardens, and trampled on blooms,—
"Column! Forward!"
Ay! trampled on blossoms, and seared the sweet breath
Of the greenwood with low-brooding vapors of death;