The sun had set; The leaves with dew were wet,-- Down fell a bloody dusk Where “Stonewall’s” corps, like a beast of prey, Tore through with angry tusk. “They’ve trapped us, boys!” Rose from our flank a voice. With rush of steel and smoke On came the rebels straight, Eager as love, and wild as hate; And our line reeled and broke; Broke and fled. Not one stayed,--but the dead! With curses, shrieks, and cries, Horses, and wagons, and men Tumbled back through the shuddering glen, And above us the fading skies. There’s some hope, still,-- Those batteries parked on the hill! “Battery, wheel” (’mid the roar), “Pass pieces; fix prolonge to fire Retiring. Trot!” In the panic dire A bugle rings “Trot!”--and no more. The horses plunged, The cannon lurched and lunged, To join the hopeless rout. But suddenly rose a form Calmly in front of the human storm. With a stern commanding shout: “Align those guns!” (We knew it was Pleasanton’s.) The cannoneers bent to obey, And worked with a will at his word, And the black guns moved as if they had heard. But, ah, the dread delay! “To wait is crime; O God, for ten minutes’ time!” The general looked around. There Keenan sat, like a stone, With his three hundred horse alone, Less shaken than the ground. “Major, your men?” “Are soldiers, general.” “Then, Charge, major! Do your best; Hold the enemy back, at all cost, Till my guns are placed;--else the army is lost. You die to save the rest!” By the shrouded gleam of the western skies Brave Keenan looked into Pleasanton’s eyes For an instant,--clear, and cool, and still; Then, with a smile, he said: “I will.” “Cavalry, charge!” Not a man of them shrank. Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on rank, Rose joyously, with a willing breath,-- Rose like a greeting hail to death. Then forward they sprang, and spurred, and clashed; Shouted the officers, crimson-sashed; Rode well the men, each brave as his fellow, In their faded coats of the blue and yellow; And above in the air, with an instinct true, Like a bird of war their pennon flew. With clank of scabbard, and thunder of steeds, And blades that shine like sunlit reeds, And strong brown faces bravely pale For fear their proud attempt shall fail, Three hundred Pennsylvanians close On twice ten thousand gallant foes. Line after line the troopers came To the edge of the woods that was ringed with flame; Rode in, and sabred, and shot,--and fell; Nor came one back his wounds to tell. And full in the midst rose Keenan, tall, In the gloom like a martyr awaiting his fall, While the circle-stroke of his sabre, swung Round his head, like a halo there, luminous hung.