« EelmineJätka »
The roar of that red sea uncontroll’d,
With Sheridan twenty miles away.
But there is a road from Winchester town,
With Sheridan fifteen miles away.
Still sprang from those swift hoofs, thundering south,
With Sheridan only ten miles away.
Under his spurning feet, the road,
And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire,
With Sheridan only five miles away.
The first that the general saw were the groups
From Winchester down to save the day.”
Hurrah ! hurrah for Sheridan !
“Here is the steed that saved the day By carrying Sheridan into the fight,
From Winchester,-twenty miles away !”
'T was the day when with Jameson, fierce Berry, and
Birney, Against twenty thousand he rallied the field. Where the red volleys poured, where the clamor rose
highest, Where the dead lay in clumps through the dwarf oak
and pine, Where the aim from the thicket was surest and nighest, No charge like Phil Kearney's along the whole line.
When the battle went ill, and the bravest were solemn, Near the dark Seven Pines, where we still held our
ground, He rode down the length of the withering columu,
And his heart at our war-cry leapt up with a bound. He snuffed, like his charger, the wind of the powder,– His sword waved us on, and we answered the sign;
Loud our cheer as we rushed, but his laugh rang the
louder : “There's the devil's own fun, boys, along the whole
How he strode his brown steed! How we saw his blade
brighten In the one hand still left-and the reins in his teeth! He laughed like a boy when the holidays heighten,
But a soldier's glance shot from his visor beneath. Up came the reserves to the mellay infernal,
Asking where to go in—through the clearing or pine? “Oh, anywhere! Forward ! 'T is all the same, Colonel :
You 'll find lovely fighting along the whole line !
Oh, evil the black shroud of night at Chantilly,
That hid him from sight of his brave men and tried ! Foul, foul sped the bullet that clipped the white lily,
The flower of our knighthood, the whole army's pride! Yet we dream that he still—in that shadowy region Where the dead form their ranks at the wan drum
mer's signRides on, as of old, down the length of his legion,
And the word still is Forward ! along the whole line.
[Mr. William Gilmore Simms tells us that this poem, stained with blood, was found on the person of a dead soldier of the Stonewall brigade after one of Jackson's battles in the Shenandoah Valley. Its authorship, long unknown, has been discovered by Mr. Francis F. Browne. -EDITOR.]
OME, stack arms, men ! Pile on the rails,
Stir up the camp-fire bright;
We'll make a roaring night,
Of “Stonewall Jackson's way.”
We see him now—the queer slouched hat
Cocked o'er his eye askew;