The summit-cannon plunge their flame Sheer down the primal wall, But up and up each linking troop In stretching festoons crawl-- Nor fire a shot. Such men appall The foe, though brave. He, from the brink, Looks far along the breadth of slope, And sees two miles of dark dots creep, And knows they mean the cope. He sees them creep. Yet here and there Half hid ’mid leafless groves they go; As men who ply through traceries high Of turreted marbles show-- So dwindle these to eyes below. But fronting shot and flanking shell Sliver and rive the inwoven ways; High tops of oaks and high hearts fall, But never the climbing stays. From right to left, from left to right They roll the rallying cheer-- Vie with each other, brother with brother, Who shall the first appear-- What color-bearer with colors clear In sharp relief, like sky-drawn Grant, Whose cigar must now be near the stump-- While in solicitude his back Heap slowly to a hump. Near and more near; till now the flags Run like a catching flame; And one flares highest, to peril nighest-- _He_ means to make a name: Salvos! they give him his fame. The staff is caught, and next the rush, And then the leap where death has led; Flag answered flag along the crest, And swarms of rebels fled. But some who gained the envied Alp, And--eager, ardent, earnest there-- Dropped into Death’s wide-open arms, Quelled on the wing like eagles struck in air-- Forever they slumber young and fair, The smile upon them as they died; Their end attained, that end a height: Life was to these a dream fulfilled, And death a starry night. The Armies of the Wilderness. (1683-64.) I Like snows the camps on southern hills Lay all the winter long, Our levies there in patience stood-- They stood in patience strong. On fronting slopes gleamed other camps Where faith as firmly clung: Ah, froward king! so brave miss-- The zealots of the Wrong. _In this strife of brothers (God, hear their country call), However it be, whatever betide, Let not the just one fall._ Through the pointed glass our soldiers saw The base-ball bounding sent; They could have joined them in their sport But for the vale’s deep rent. And others turned the reddish soil, Like diggers of graves they bent: The reddish soil and tranching toil Begat presentiment. _Did the Fathers feel mistrust? Can no final good be wrought? Over and over, again and again Must the fight for the Right be fought?_ They lead a Gray-back to the crag: “Your earth-works yonder--tell us, man” “A prisoner--no deserter, I, Nor one of the tell-tale clan” His rags they mark: “True-blue like you Should wear the color--your Country’s, man” He grinds his teeth: “However that be, Yon earth-works have their plan.”