DAWN of a pleasant morning in May | |
| Broke through the Wilderness cool and gray; | |
| While perched in the tallest tree-tops, the birds | |
| Were carolling Mendelssohn’s “Songs without Words.” | |
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| Far from the haunts of men remote, | 5 |
| The brook brawled on with a liquid note; | |
| And Nature, all tranquil and lovely, wore | |
| The smile of the spring, as in Eden of yore. | |
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| Little by little, as daylight increased, | |
| And deepened the roseate flush in the East— | 10 |
| Little by little did morning reveal | |
| Two long glittering lines of steel; | |
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| Where two hundred thousand bayonets gleam, | |
| Tipped with the light of the earliest beam, | |
| And the faces are sullen and grim to see | 15 |
| In the hostile armies of Grant and Lee. | |
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| All of a sudden, ere rose the sun, | |
| Pealed on the silence the opening gun— | |
| A little white puff of smoke there came, | |
| And anon the valley was wreathed in flame. | 20 |
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| Down on the left of the Rebel lines, | |
| Where a breastwork stands in a copse of pines, | |
| Before the Rebels their ranks can form, | |
| The Yankees have carried the place by storm. | |
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| Stars and Stripes on the salient wave, | 25 |
| Where many a hero has found a grave, | |
| And the gallant Confederates strive in vain | |
| The ground they have drenched with their blood, to regain. | |
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| Yet louder the thunder of battle roared— | |
| Yet a deadlier fire on the columns poured; | 30 |
| Slaughter infernal rode with Despair, | |
| Furies twain, through the murky air. | |
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| Not far off, in the saddle there sat | |
| A gray-bearded man in a black slouched hat; | |
| Not much moved by the fire was he, | 35 |
| Calm and resolute Robert Lee. | |
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| Quick and watchful he kept his eye | |
| On the bold Rebel brigades close by,— | |
| Reserves that were standing (and dying) at ease, | |
| While the tempest of wrath toppled over the trees. | 40 |
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| For still with their loud, deep, bull-dog bay, | |
| The Yankee batteries blazed away, | |
| And with every murderous second that sped | |
| A dozen brave fellows, alas! fell dead. | |
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| The grand old graybeard rode to the space | 45 |
| Where Death and his victims stood face to face, | |
| And silently waved his old slouched hat— | |
| A world of meaning there was in that! | |
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| “Follow me! Steady! We ’ll save the day!” | |
| This was what he seemed to say; | 50 |
| And to the light of his glorious eye | |
| The bold brigades thus made reply: | |
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| “We ’ll go forward, but you must go back”— | |
| And they moved not an inch in the perilous track: | |
| “Go to the rear, and we ’ll send them to hell!” | 55 |
| And the sound of the battle was lost in their yell. | |
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| Turning his bridle, Robert Lee | |
| Rode to the rear. Like waves of the sea, | |
| Bursting the dikes in their overflow, | |
| Madly his veterans dashed on the foe. | 60 |
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| And backward in terror that foe was driven, | |
| Their banners rent and their columns riven, | |
| Wherever the tide of battle rolled | |
| Over the Wilderness, wood and wold. | |
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| Sunset out of a crimson sky | 65 |
| Streamed o’er a field of ruddier dye, | |
| And the brook ran on with a purple stain, | |
| From the blood of ten thousand foemen slain. | |
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| Seasons have passed since that day and year— | |
| Again o’er its pebbles the brook runs clear, | 70 |
| And the field in a richer green is drest | |
| Where the dead of a terrible conflict rest. | |
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| Hushed is the roll of the Rebel drum, | |
| The sabres are sheathed, and the cannon are dumb; | |
| And Fate, with his pitiless hand, has furled | 75 |
| The flag that once challenged the gaze of the world; | |
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| But the fame of the Wilderness fight abides; | |
| And down into history grandly rides, | |
| Calm and unmoved as in battle he sat, | |
| The gray-bearded man in the black slouched hat. | 80 |
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