Pickett’s Virginians were passing through; Supple as steel and brown as leather, Rusty and dusty of hat and shoe, Wonted to hunger and war and weather; Peerless, fearless, an army’s flower! Sterner soldiers the world saw never, Marching lightly, that summer hour, To death and failure and fame forever. Rose from the rippling ranks a cheer; Pickett saluted, with bold eyes beaming, Sweeping his cap like a cavalier, With his lion locks in the warm wind streaming. Fierce little Jenny! her courage fell, As the firm lines flickered with friendly laughter, And Greencastle streets gave back the yell That Gettysburg slopes gave back soon after. So they cheered for the flag they fought With the generous glow of the stubborn fighter, Loving the brave as the brave man ought, And never a finger was raised to fright her: So they marched, though they knew it not, Through the fresh green June to the shock infernal, To the hell of the shell and the plunging shot, And the charge that has won them a name eternal. And she felt at last, as she hid her face, There had lain at the root of her childish daring A trust in the men of her own brave race, And a secret faith in the foe’s forbearing. And she sobbed, till the roll of the rumbling gun And the swinging tramp of the marching men Were a memory only, and day was done, And the stars in the fold of the blue again. (_Thank God that the day of the sword is done, And the stars in the fold of the blue again!_) BY THE BLOCKHOUSE ON THE HILL A BALLAD OF ’NINETY-EIGHT The soul of the fair young man sprang up From the earth where his body lay, And he was aware of a grim dark soul Companioning his way. “Who are you, brother?” the fair soul said; “We wing together still!” And the soul replied, that was swart and red, “The spirit of him who shot you dead By the blockhouse on the hill. “Your men and you on the crest were first, And the last foe left was I; In the crackle of rifles I dropped and cursed, Lightning-struck as the cheer outburst And the hot charge panted nigh. “You saw me writhe at the side of the trench: You bade--I know not what: With one last gnash, with one last wrench, I sped my last, sure shot. “The thing that lies on the sodden ground Like a wrack of the whirlwind’s track, Your men have made of the body of me,-- But they could not call you back! “In that black game I won, I won! But had you worked your will, Speak now the shame that you would have done By the blockhouse on the hill!” “God judge my men!” said the fair young soul; “He knows you tried them sore. Had He given me power to bide an hour I had wrought that they forbore.