BY the shrouded gleam of the western skies, | |
| Brave Keenan looked in Pleasanton’s eyes | |
| For an instant—clear, and cool, and still; | |
| Then, with a smile, he said: “I will.” | |
| “Cavalry, charge!” Not a man of them shrank; | 5 |
| Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on rank, | |
| Rose joyously, with a willing breath— | |
| Rose like a greeting hail to death. | |
| Then forward they sprang, and spurred, and clashed; | |
| Shouted the officers, crimson-sashed; | 10 |
| Rode well the men, each brave as his fellow, | |
| In their faded coats of the blue and yellow; | |
| And above in the air, with an instinct true, | |
| Like a bird of war their pennon flew. | |
| |
| With clank of scabbards and thunder of steeds, | 15 |
| And blades that shine like sunlit reeds, | |
| And strong brown faces bravely pale, | |
| For fear their proud attempt shall fail, | |
| Three hundred Pennsylvania close | |
| On twice ten thousand gallant foes. | 20 |
| |
| Line after line the troopers came | |
| To the edge of the wood that was ring’d with flame; | |
| Rode in and sabred and shot—and fell: | |
| Nor came one back his wounds to tell. | |
| And full in the midst rose Keenan, tall | 25 |
| In the gloom, like a martyr awaiting his fall, | |
| While the circle-stroke of his sabre, swung | |
| ’Round his head, like a halo there, luminous hung. | |
| Line after line, ay, whole platoons, | |
| Struck dead in their saddles, of brave dragoons | 30 |
| By the maddened horses were onward borne | |
| And into the vortex flung, trampled and torn; | |
| As Keenan fought with his men, side by side. | |
| So they rode, till there were no more to ride. | |
| |
| But over them lying there, shattered and mute, | 35 |
| What deep echo rolls? ’Tis a death salute | |
| From the cannon in place; for, heroes, you braved | |
| Your fate not in vain: the army was saved! | |
| Over them now—year following year— | |
| Over their graves the pine-cones fall, | 40 |
| And the whippoorwill chants his spectre-call; | |
| But they stir not again; they raise no cheer: | |
| They have ceased. But their glory shall never cease, | |
| Nor their light be quenched in the light of peace. | |
| The rush of their charge is resounding still, | 45 |
| That saved the army at Chancellorsville. | |
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