Far from the haunts of men remote, The brook brawled on with a liquid note, And nature, all tranquil and lovely, wore The smile of spring, as in Eden of yore. Little by little as daylight increased, And deepened the roseate flush in the east,-- Little by little did morning reveal Two long glittering lines of steel; Where two hundred thousand bayonets gleam, Tipped with light of the earliest beam, And the faces are sullen and grim to see, In the hostile armies of Grant and Lee. All of a sudden, ere rose the sun, Pealed on the silence the opening gun; A little white puff of smoke there came, And anon the valley was wreathed in flame. Down on the left of the rebel lines, Where a breastwork stands in a copse of pines, Before the rebels their ranks can form, The Yankees have carried the place by storm. Stars and Stripes o’er the salient wave, Where many a hero has found a grave; And the gallant Confederates strive in vain The ground they have drenched with their blood to regain. Yet louder the thunder of battle roared; Yet a deadlier fire on their columns poured; Slaughter infernal rode with Despair, Furies twain, through the smoky air. Not far off, in the saddle there sat A gray-bearded man in a black slouch-hat; Not much moved by the fire was he, Calm and resolute Robert Lee. Quick and watchful, he kept his eye On two bold rebel brigades close by,-- Reserves, that were standing (and dying) at ease, While the tempest of wrath toppled over the trees. For still with their loud, deep, bulldog bay, The Yankee batteries blazed away, And with every murderous second that sped A dozen brave fellows, alas, fell dead! The grand old graybeard rode to the space Where Death and his victims stood face to face, And silently waved his old slouch-hat; A world of meaning there was in that! “Follow me! Steady! We’ll save the day!” This was what he seemed to say; And to the light of his glorious eye The bold brigades thus made reply:-- “We’ll go forward, but you must go back!” And they moved not an inch in the perilous track; “Go to the rear, and we’ll send them to hell!” And the sound of the battle was lost in their yell. Turning his bridle, Robert Lee Rode to the rear. Like the waves of the sea, Bursting their dikes in their overflow, Madly his veterans dashed on the foe. And backward in terror that foe was driven, Their banners rent and their columns riven, Wherever the tide of battle rolled Over the Wilderness, wood and wold. Sunset out of a crimson sky Streamed o’er a field of ruddier dye, And the brook ran on with a purple stain From the blood of ten thousand foemen slain.