And passed from mouth to mouth the tale of that grim day just done, The fight by Round Top’s craggy spur,—of all the deadliest one; It saved the left: but on the right they pressed us back too well, And like a field in Spring the ground was ploughed with shot and shell. There was the ancient graveyard, its hummocks crushed and red, And there, between them, side by side, the wounded and the dead: The mangled corpses fallen above,—the peaceful dead below, Laid in their graves, to slumber here, a score of years ago; It seemed their waking, wandering shades were asking of our slain, What brought such hideous tumult now where they so still had lain! Bright rose the sun of Gettysburg that morrow morning-tide, And call of trump and roll of drum from height to height replied. Hark! from the east already goes up the rattling din; The Twelfth Corps, winning back their ground, right well the day begin! They whirl fierce Ewell from their front! Now we of the Second pray, As right and left the brunt have borne, the centre might to-day. But all was still from hill to hill for many a breathless hour, While for the coming battle-shock Lee gathered in his power; And back and forth our leaders rode, who knew not rest or fear, And along the lines, where’er they came, went up the ringing cheer. ’Twas past the hour of nooning; the Summer skies were blue; Behind the covering timber the foe was hid from view; So fair and sweet with waving wheat the pleasant valley lay, It brought to mind our Northern homes and meadows far away; When the whole western ridge at once was fringed with fire and smoke; Against our lines from sevenscore guns the dreadful tempest broke! Then loud our batteries answer, and far along the crest, And to and fro the roaring bolts are driven east and west; Heavy and dark around us glooms the stifling sulphur-cloud, And the cries of mangled men and horse go up beneath its shroud. The guns are still: the end is nigh: we grasp our arms anew; O now let every heart be stanch and every aim be true! For look! from yonder wood that skirts the valley’s further marge, The flower of all the Southern host move to the final charge. By Heaven! it is a fearful sight to see their double rank Come with a hundred battle-flags,—a mile from flank to flank! Tramping the grain to earth, they come, ten thousand men abreast; Their standards wave,—their hearts are brave,—they hasten not, nor rest, But close the gaps our cannon make, and onward press, and nigher, And, yelling at our very front, again pour in their fire!