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 leaped up at 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 be neath. Up came the reserves to the valley 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, coil the black shroud of the 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. "THE BRIGADE MUST NOT KNOW, SIR!" "Who've ye got there?"-"Only a dying brother, Hurt in the front just now." "Good boy! he'll do. Somebody tell his mother Where he was killed, and how." How he strode his brown steed! How we saw his blade brighten In the one hand still left, and the reins in his teeth.-Page 79. 18 "Whom have you there?"-"A crippled courier, Major, Shot by mistake, we hear. He was with Stonewall."-Cruel work they've made here; Quick with him to the rear!" "Well, who comes next?"-"Doctor, speak low, speak low, sir; Don't let the men find out! It's STONEWALL!"—"God!"—"The brigade must not know, sir, While there's a foe about!" Whom have we here-shrouded in martial manner, Crowned with a martyr's charm? A grand dead hero, in a living banner, The heart whereon his cause hung-see how clingeth That banner to his bier! The arm wherewith his cause struck-hark! how ringeth His trumpet in their rear! |