| |
| HISTORIC mount! baptized in flame and blood, | |
| Thy name is as immortal as the rocks | |
| That crowned thy thunder-scarred but royal brow. | |
| Thou liftest up thy aged head in pride | |
| In the cool atmosphere, but higher still | 5 |
| Within the calm and solemn atmosphere | |
| Of an immortal fame. From thy sublime | |
| And awful summit I can gaze afar | |
| Upon innumerous lesser pinnacles, | |
| And oh! my wingéd spirit loves to fly, | 10 |
| Like a strong eagle, mid their up-piled crags. | |
| But most on thee, imperial mount, my soul | |
Is chained as by a spell of power.
I gaze | |
| From this tall height on Chickamauga’s field, | |
| Where Death held erst high carnival. The waves | 15 |
| Of the mysterious death-river moaned; | |
| The tramp, the shout, the fearful thunder-roar | |
| Of red-breathed cannon, and the wailing cry | |
| Of myriad victims, filled the air. The smoke | |
| Of battle closed above the charging hosts, | 20 |
| And, when it passed, the grand old flag no more | |
| Waved in the light of heaven. The soil was wet | |
| And miry with the life-blood of the brave, | |
| As with a drenching rain; and yon broad stream, | |
| The noble and majestic Tennessee, | 25 |
Ran reddened toward the deep.
But thou, O bleak | |
| And rocky mountain, wast the theatre | |
| Of a yet fiercer struggle. On thy height, | |
| Where now I sit, a proud and gallant host, | |
| The chivalry and glory of the South, | 30 |
| Stood up awaiting battle. Sombre clouds, | |
| Floating far, far beneath them, shut from view | |
| The stern and silent foe, whose storied flag | |
| Bore on its folds our country’s monarch-bird, | |
| Whose talons grasp the thunderbolt. Up, up | 35 |
| Thy rugged sides they came with measured tramp, | |
| Unheralded by bugle, drum, or shout, | |
| And, though the clouds closed round them with the gloom | |
| Of double night, they paused not in their march | |
| Till sword and plume and bayonet emerged | 40 |
| Above the spectral shades that circled round | |
| Thy awful breast. Then suddenly a storm | |
| Of flame and lead and iron downward burst, | |
| From this tall pinnacle, like winter hail. | |
| Long, fierce, and bloody was the strife,—alas! | 45 |
| The noble flag, our country’s hope and pride, | |
| Sank down beneath the surface of the clouds, | |
| As sinks the pennon of a shipwrecked bark | |
| Beneath a stormy sea, and naught was heard | |
| Save the wild cries and moans of stricken men, | 50 |
| And the swift rush of fleeing warriors down | |
Thy rugged steeps.
But soon the trumpet-voice | |
| Of the bold chieftain of the routed host | |
| Resounded through the atmosphere, and pierced | |
| The clouds that hung around thee. With high words | 55 |
| He quickly summoned his brave soldiery back | |
| To the renewal of the deadly fight; | |
| Again their stern and measured tramp was heard | |
| By the flushed Southrons, as it echoed up | |
| Thy bald, majestic cliffs. Again they burst, | 60 |
| Like spirits of destruction, through the clouds, | |
| And mid a thousand hurtling missiles swept | |
| Their foes before them as the whirlwind sweeps | |
| The strong oaks of the forest. Victory | |
| Perched with her sister-eagle on the scorched | 65 |
And torn and blackened banner.
Awful mount: | |
| The stains of blood have faded from thy rocks, | |
| The cries of mortal agony have ceased | |
| To echo from thy hollow cliffs, the smoke | |
| Of battle long since melted into air, | 70 |
| And yet thou art unchanged. Aye thou wilt lift | |
| In majesty thy walls above the storm, | |
| Mocking the generations as they pass, | |
| And pilgrims of the far-off centuries | |
| Will sometimes linger in their wanderings, | 75 |
| To ponder, with a deep and sacred awe, | |
| The legend of the fight above the clouds. | |
| |
