Just at this critical moment, General Philip Kearny, who was leading one of General Heintzelman's divisions, advanced with intrepid heart and unfaltering step upon the exultant foe. This was during a most fearful thunder-storm, so furious that with difficulty could ammunition be kept at all serviceable, and the roar of cannon could scarcely be heard a half dozen miles away. The Rebel ranks recoiled and broke before this terrible bolt of war. Just before dark, while riding too carelessly over the field and very near the rebel lines, Kearny was shot dead by one of the enemy's sharpshooters. His command devolved upon General Birney, who ordered another charge, which was executed with great gallantry, driving the enemy from the field, and defeating the great flanker in his attempts farther to harass our retreating columns. But our success had been dearly bought. Two generals had been sacrificed, and Kearny especially was lamented all over the land. Of him the poet sings: "Our country bleeds With blows her own hands strike. He starts, he heeds Her cries for succor. In a foreign land He dwells; his bowers with luxury's pinions fanned, His cup with roses crowned. He dashes down The cup, he leaves the bowers; he flies to aid His native land. Out leaps his patriot blade! Quick to the van he darts. Again the frown Of strife bends blackening; once again his ear War's furious trump with stern delight drinks in; Again tho Battle-Bolt in red career! Again the flood, the frenzy, and the din! At tottering Williamsburg his granite front Bears without shook the battle's fiercest brunt. So have we seen the crag beat back the blast, So has the shore the surges backward cast. Behind his rock the shattered ranks re-form; Forward, still forward, until dark defeat Burns to bright victory! * * * * * Fame commands The song; we yield it gladly; but the glow Fades as we sing. The dire, the fatal blow Fell, fell at last. Full, full in deadliest front Leading his legions, leading as his wont, The bullet wafts him to his mortal goal! And not alone War's thunders saw him die; Amid the glare, the rushing, and the roll, Glared, crashed, the grand dread battle of the sky! There on two pinions,--War's and Storm's,--he soared Flight how majestic! up! His dirge was roared Not warbled, and his pall was smoke and cloud; Flowers of red shot, red lightnings strewed his bier, And night, black night, the mourner. * * * * *