Crouching meanwhile at the front, by the low stone walls and the fences There on the opposite ridge, the soldiers of Hays and of Gibbon,-- Every man soldierly-proud of the Trefoil he wore on his cap-crown, Were it of white or of blue, the Trefoil that told he was Hancock’s,-- Crouching expectant and grim, in the roar of that great cannonading, Broke into cheer after cheer: with the flag of the Trefoil behind him, Rode the corps-commander, reviewing the line of his legions, Knowing men’s need of a man. In the fury of sound, and the frantic Shriek of the battery horses, and hell-blaze of caissons exploding, Reared the black charger he rode; yet persisted the resolute rider, Masterful, mounted afresh; and along the line ran the murmur, Flame on a dry field’s edge, “Hancock, it’s Hancock!” and freshly Kindled the cheer as he passed. So they lay in the line, with the muskets Clutched in the hard hands, ready; the men of New York and New Jersey, Delaware’s sons, and Maine’s, and the close-coupled, war-welded comrades, Stalwart Michigan men and the soldiers of old Massachusetts. There were the very sons of the well-loved soil they defended, Stretched by the low stone wall and the dark little cluster of oak-trees. There were the lads of Vermont, fresh to the field, with equipments Glittering,--gallant to see as the folds of a clear-colored ensign Newly upreared on the staff, floating out stainless and splendid; There too, knit in its place, was the shred of the First Minnesota, Left from the Second Day’s charge when it flung itself in as a stop-gap, Stirring to see as the shred of the battle-burnt colors left clinging Blackened and rent, to the staff, and advanced in the forefront of danger. Nay, nor alone the shoots of the rooted stock of the fathers Stood in that hedge of war; but the aliens, the sons of adoption, Loyal to death to the land of their love, as a mystical Mother, Virgin, glorious, mild, immortal, a presence to die for! There in the line of defence was the flag Garibaldi once planted Proud on the ramparts of Rome; and the bright-green beautiful banner, Banner of glory and grief, that has blown in the breezes of battle Over all fields of the world, to beckon high hearts to the onset; Yet was uplifted supreme the Flag of the hope of the future, Set with the splendors of stars, and striped with the heart’s-blood of heroes.