Under his spurning feet, the road, Like an arrowy Alpine river flow’d And the landscape sped away behind Like an ocean flying before the wind; And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, Swept on, with his wild eye full of fire. But, lo! he is nearing his heart’s desire; He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, With Sheridan only five miles away. The first that the general saw were the groups Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops; What was done? what to do? a glance told him both. Then striking his spurs with a terrible oath, He dash’d down the line, ’mid a storm of huzzas, And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because The sight of the master compell’d it to pause. With foam and with dust the black charger was gray; By the flash of his eye, and the red nostril’s play, He seem’d to the whole great army to say: “I have brought you Sheridan all the way From Winchester down to save the day.” Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan! Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man! And when their statues are placed on high, Under the dome of the Union sky, The American soldier’s Temple of Fame, There with the glorious general’s name Be it said, in letters both bold and bright: “Here is the steed that saved the day By carrying Sheridan into the fight, From Winchester,--twenty miles away!” [Illustration] KEARNEY AT SEVEN PINES. BY EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. So that soldierly legend is still on its journey-- That story of Kearney who knew not to yield! ’Twas the day when with Jameson, fierce Berry, and Birney, Against twenty thousand he rallied the field. Where the red volleys poured, where the clamor rose highest, Where the dead lay in clumps through the dwarf oak and pine, Where the aim from the thicket was surest and nighest, No charge like Phil Kearney’s along the whole line. When the battle went ill, and the bravest were solemn, Near the dark Seven Pines, where we still held our ground, He rode down the length of the withering column, And his heart at our war-cry leapt up with a bound. He snuffed, like his charger, the wind of the powder,-- His sword waved us on, and we answered the sign; Loud our cheer as we rushed, but his laugh rang the louder: “There’s the devil’s own fun, boys, along the whole line!” How he strode his brown steed! How we saw his blade brighten In the one hand still left--and the reins in his teeth! He laughed like a boy when the holidays heighten, But a soldier’s glance shot from his visor beneath. Up came the reserves to the mellay infernal, Asking where to go in--through the clearing or pine? “Oh, anywhere! Forward! ’Tis all the same, Colonel: You’ll find lovely fighting along the whole line!”