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THE BATTLE OF GAINES' HILL.
77
Like storm-tossed billows backward surged,
By Northern valor scourged.
By Northern valor scourged.
········
The battle's last, long thunders rolled;
And down the vaulted skies, once more,
Came night, the ghostly seer and old,
To read fulfillment of his lore,
In streams of stiffening gore.
The battle's last, long thunders rolled;
And down the vaulted skies, once more,
Came night, the ghostly seer and old,
To read fulfillment of his lore,
In streams of stiffening gore.
And we, with weak and gasping breath,
With hearts that bled for comrades slain,
Reeled, shuddering, from the hill of death,
And laid us down to sleep again,
The soldier's sleep of pain.
With hearts that bled for comrades slain,
Reeled, shuddering, from the hill of death,
And laid us down to sleep again,
The soldier's sleep of pain.
But every step upon the ground,
And every whisper stealing near,
Smote us anew with crashing sound,
As if the cannons rent the ear,
So loud the dead might hear.
And every whisper stealing near,
Smote us anew with crashing sound,
As if the cannons rent the ear,
So loud the dead might hear.
The stars their darkest pathways trod,
When we once more, with staggering feet,
Low whispering to ourselves and God,
"Only the sleep of death is sweet!"
Began our long retreat.
When we once more, with staggering feet,
Low whispering to ourselves and God,
"Only the sleep of death is sweet!"
Began our long retreat.
