'Twas past the hour of nooning; the Summer skies

were blue;

Behind the covering timber the foe was hid from

view;

So fair and sweet with waving wheat the pleasant valley lay,

It brought to mind our Northern homes and meadows far away;

When the whole western ridge at once was fringed with fire and smoke,

Against our lines from sevenscore guns the dreadful tempest broke!

Then loud our batteries answer, and far along the crest,

And to and fro the roaring bolts are driven east and west;

Heavy and dark around us glooms the stifling sulphur-cloud,

And the cries of mangled men and horse go up beneath its shroud.

The guns are still: the end is nigh: we grasp our

arms anew;

O now let every heart be stanch and every aim be true!

For look! from yonder wood that skirts the valley's

further marge,

The flower of all the Southern host move to the final charge.

By Heaven! it is a fearful sight to see their double

rank

Come with a hundred battle-flags -a mile from flank to flank!

Tramping the grain to earth, they come, ten thousand men abreast;

Their standards wave-their hearts are bravethey hasten not, nor rest,

But close the gaps our cannon make, and onward press, and nigher,

And, yelling at our very front, again pour in their fire!

Now burst our sheeted lightnings forth, now all our wrath has vent!

They die, they wither; through and through their wavering lines are rent.

But these are gallant, desperate men, of our own race and land,

Who charge anew, and welcome death, and fight us hand to hand:

Vain, vain! give way, as well ye may-the crimson die is cast!

Their bravest leaders bite the dust, their strength is failing fast;

They yield, they turn, they fly the field: we smite them as they run ;

Their arms, their colors, are our spoil; the furious fight is done!

Across the plain we follow far and backward push

the fray :

Cheer! cheer! the grand old Army at last has won the day!

Hurrah! the day has won the cause! No grayclad host henceforth

Shall come with fire and sword to tread the highways of the North!

'Twas such a flood as when ye see, along the Atlantic shore,

The great Spring-tide roll grandly in with swelling surge and roar :

It seems no wall can stay its leap or balk its wild desire

Beyond the bound that Heaven hath fixed to higher mount, and higher;

But now, when whitest lifts its crest, most loud its billows call,

Touched by the Power that led them on, they fall, and fall, and fall.

Even thus, unstayed upon his course, to Gettysburg

the foe

His legions led, and fought, and fled, and might no further go.

Full many a dark-eyed Southern girl shall weep her lover dead;

But with a price the fight was ours-we too have tears to shed!

The bells that peal our triumph forth anon shall toll the brave,

Above whose heads the cross must stand, the hillside grasses wave!

Alas! alas! the trampled grass shall thrive another year,

The blossoms on the apple-boughs with each new Spring appear,

But when our patriot-soldiers fall, Earth gives them up to God;

Though their souls rise in clearer skies, their forms are as the sod;

Only their names and deeds are ours-but, for a century yet,

The dead who fell at Gettysburg the land shall not forget.

God send us peace! and where for aye the loved and lost recline

Let fall, O South, your leaves of palm-O North, your sprigs of pine!

But when, with every ripened year, we keep the harvest-home,

And to the dear Thanksgiving-feast our sons and daughters come

When children's children throng the board in the old homestead spread,

And the bent soldier of these wars is seated at the

head,

Long, long the lads shall listen to hear the gray

beard tell

Of those who fought at Gettysburg and stood their ground so well:

'Twas for the Union and the Flag," the veteran shall say,

“Our grand old Army held the ridge, and won that glorious day!"

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

AT GETTYSBURG.

LIKE a furnace of fire blazed the midsummer sun,
When to saddle we leaped at the order,
Spurred on by the boom of the deep-throated gun
That told of the foe on our border.

A mist in our rear lay Antietam's dark plain,
And thoughts of its carnage came o'er us;
But smiling beyond surged the fields of ripe grain,
And we swore none should reap it before us.

That night, with the ensign who rode by my side,
On the camp's dreary edge I stood picket,

Our ears intent lest every wind-rustle hide
A foe's stealthy tread in the thicket;

And there, while we watched the first arrows of dawn

Through the veil of the rising mists quiver, He told how the foeman had closed in upon

His home by the Tennessee River.

He spoke of a sire in his weakness cut down,
With his last breath the traitor-flag scorning;

And his brow with the memory grew dark with a frown

That paled the red light of the morning.

For days he had followed the cowardly band;
And, when one lagged to forage or trifle,
Had seared in his forehead the deep Minié brand,
And scored a fresh notch in his rifle.

But one of the rangers had cheated his fate-
For him he would search the world over:
Such cool-plotting passion, such keenness of hate,
Ne'er saw I in woman-scorned lover.

Oh, who would have thought that beneath those dark curls

Lurked vengeance as sure as death-rattle; Or fancied those dreamy eyes, soft as a girl's, Could light with the fury of battle?

To horse! pealed the bugle, while grape-shot and shell

Overhead through the forest were crashing;

A cheer for the flag-and the summer light fell
On the blades from a thousand sheaths flashing.
As mad ocean-waves to the storm-revel flock,

So on we dashed, heedless of dangers;

A moment our long line surged back at the shock,
Then swept through the ranks of the Rangers.

I looked for the ensign. Ahead of his troop,
Pressing on through the conflict infernal,

His torn flag furled round him in festoon and loop,
He spurred to the side of his colonel.

And his clear voice rang out, as I saw his bright

sword

Through shako and gaudy plume shiver,

With, "This for the last of the murderous horde !"
And, "This for the home by the river !"

At evening, returned from pursuit of the foe,
By a shell-shattered caisson we found him;
And we buried him there in the sunset's red glow,
With the dear old flag knotted around him.