Seeks the far Hesperides, The islands of the blest, Where no turbulent billows roar,— Where is rest. His ghost upon the shadowy quarter stands Nearing the deathless lands. There all his martial mates, renewed and strong, Await his coming long. I see the happy Heroes rise With gratulation in their eyes: “Welcome, old comrade,” Lawrence cries; “Ah, Stewart, tell us of the wars! Who win the glory and the scars? How floats the skyey flag,—how many stars? Still speak they of Decatur’s name, Of Bainbridge’s and Perry’s fame? Of me, who earliest came? Make ready, all: Room for the Admiral! Come, Stewart, tell us of the wars!” GETTYSBURG. Wave, wave your glorious battle-flags, brave soldiers of the North, And from the field your arms have won to-day go proudly forth! For now, O comrades dear and leal,—from whom no ills could part, Through the long years of hopes and fears, the nation’s constant heart,— Men who have driven so oft the foe, so oft have striven in vain, Yet ever in the perilous hour have crossed his path again,— At last we have our hearts’ desire, from them we met have wrung A victory that round the world shall long be told and sung! It was the memory of the past that bore us through the fray, That gave the grand old Army strength to conquer on this day! O now forget how dark and red Virginia’s rivers flow, The Rappahannock’s tangled wilds, the glory and the woe; The fever-hung encampments, where our dying knew full sore How sweet the north-wind to the cheek it soon shall cool no more; The fields we fought, and gained, and lost; the lowland sun and rain That wasted us, that bleached the bones of our unburied slain! There was no lack of foes to meet, of deaths to die no lack, And all the hawks of heaven learned to follow on our track; But henceforth, hovering southward, their flight shall mark afar The paths of yon retreating hosts that shun the northern star. At night, before the closing fray, when all the front was still, We lay in bivouac along the cannon-crested hill. Ours was the dauntless Second Corps; and many a soldier knew How sped the fight, and sternly thought of what was yet to do. Guarding the centre there, we lay, and talked with bated breath Of Buford’s stand beyond the town, of gallant Reynold’s death, Of cruel retreats through pent-up streets by murderous volleys swept,— How well the Stone, the Iron, Brigades their bloody outposts kept: ’Twas for the Union, for the Flag, they perished, heroes all, And we swore to conquer in the end, or even like them to fall.