Page:Poems Jones.djvu/98

The wind, half conscious, through the pines some wailful strain is humming—
Where lurks the foe? his ambushed lines in silence wait their coming.

But now, the keen-edged lighting darts athwart confronting trenches;
But now, resounding thunder starts, the brooding cloud it wrenches;
Hate bursts in yells (so over-bold, they hint of Terror stronger:)
As if hell's gates had failed to hold its grappling demons longer.

Thousands, intrenched, are on the height, our clambering hundreds meeting,
With bolt on bolt to crush and blight (the Southron's brother-greeting:)
Such harvests of our men they reap, dismay—defeat are wrought them!
Nay!—but they rally! up they sweep as if a whirlwind caught them!

Up, reckless of the rifle's scope, from base to brow they speed them:
Nor clinging brambles of the slope, nor fallen trunks impede them;