From first Manassas to the Wilderness, A period of some four years,--more or less, But anyway, till long in sixty-four, A musket or a shoulder-strap I bore. Though years have passed, I have remembrance yet Of musketry and glistening bayonet. As retrospective moods attune the ear To memory's voice, again I seem to hear The cannon's deep and minatory roar, Like breakers dashing on a rock-bound shore. The bursting bomb and fulminating shell, Again their stories of destruction tell. Again to-night, with memory's eye I view The sanguinary scenes of sixty-two, The march of infantry, the reckless dash Of cavalry, with onslaught fierce and rash; I see their sabres, glittering and bare, Flash from their scabbards in the smoky air; I hear the clatter of the horses' hoofs, And see the smoke expand in greyish puffs; As rifles flash and speed the deadly ball, I see the riders from their horses fall; Yet forward moves the furious attack, The opposing column wavers and falls back; I see the impact, combat hand to hand, Horses and riders writhing on the sand; I see the steeds with perspiration wet, Sink on the well-directed bayonet; I see them, wounded by the fatal lunge, Become unmanageable and madly plunge; Foaming and snorting with the sudden pain, They trample on the wounded and the slain; I see their riders in the stirrups stand And grasp their pistols with the bridle hand; I see the pistols flash and sabres thrust, A scene of wild confusion, smoke and dust; I hear the bugle sounding a retreat, They now retire, their victory complete; But mark the price paid for their brief success; Horses with blood-stained saddles,--riderless. I see an army bivouac on the field, To nature's obdurate demands they yield, And on the ground, from sheer exhaustion spent, They lie without protecting roof or tent. So silently their prostrate forms are spread, One may not tell the sleeping from the dead. I see, before the campfire's fitful gleam, The sentry pace, as in a waking dream, Yet manfully subduing the fatigue Of battle, and the march of many a league, For no excitement or emotion serves To buoy his spirits or sustain his nerves. Weak from the loss of their accustomed rest, With heavy eyes and aching bones distressed, The while their weary comrades soundly sleep, The sentinels their lonely vigils keep, As from the glittering expanse of skies, The stars look down with cold, impassive eyes.