Now burst our sheeted lightnings forth, now all our wrath has vent! They die, they wither; through and through their wavering lines are rent. But these are gallant, desperate men, of our own race and land, Who charge anew, and welcome death, and fight us hand to hand: Vain, vain! give way, as well ye may—the crimson die is cast! Their bravest leaders bite the dust, their strength is failing fast; They yield, they turn, they fly the field: we smite them as they run; Their arms, their colors are our spoil; the furious fight is done! Across the plain we follow far and backward push the fray: Cheer! cheer! the grand old Army at last has won the day! Hurrah! the day has won the cause! No gray-clad host henceforth Shall come with fire and sword to tread the highways of the North! ’Twas such a flood as when ye see, along the Atlantic shore, The great Spring-tide roll grandly in with swelling surge and roar: It seems no wall can stay its leap or balk its wild desire Beyond the bound that Heaven hath fixed to higher mount, and higher; But now, when whitest lifts its crest, most loud its billows call, Touched by the Power that led them on, they fall, and fall, and fall. Even thus, unstayed upon his course, to Gettysburg the foe His legions led, and fought, and fled, and might no further go. Full many a dark-eyed Southern girl shall weep her lover dead; But with a price the fight was ours,—we too have tears to shed! The bells that peal our triumph forth anon shall toll the brave, Above whose heads the cross must stand, the hillside grasses wave! Alas! alas! the trampled grass shall thrive another year, The blossoms on the apple-boughs with each new Spring appear, But when our patriot-soldiers fall, Earth gives them up to God; Though their souls rise in clearer skies, their forms are as the sod; Only their names and deeds are ours,—but, for a century yet, The dead who fell at Gettysburg the land shall not forget. God send us peace! and where for aye the loved and lost recline Let fall, O South, your leaves of palm,—O North, your sprigs of pine! But when, with every ripened year, we keep the harvest-home, And to the clear Thanksgiving-feast our sons and daughters come,— When children’s children throng the board in the old homestead spread, And the bent soldier of these wars is seated at the head, Long, long the lads shall listen to hear the gray-beard tell Of those who fought at Gettysburg and stood their ground so well: “’Twas for the Union and the Flag,” the veteran shall say, “Our grand old Army held the ridge, and won that glorious day!” DARTMOUTH ODE. I. PRELUDE. A wind and a voice from the North! A courier-wind sent forth From the mountains to the sea: A summons borne to me From halls which the Muses haunt, from hills where the heart and the wind are free!