"Until the winds
Bore the retreating echoes southward far,
And the dull distance murmured in our ears.

"Fast by the field where gallant Baker fell,
We crossed the famous river and advanced
To Frederick. There a transitory cloud
Gloomed the Grand Army--Hooker was relieved:
Fell from command at victory's open gate
The dashing, daring, soul-inspiring chief,
The idol of his soldiers, and they mourned.
He had his faults--they were not faults of heart--
His gravest--fiery valor. Since that day,
The self-same fault--or virtue--crowned a chief
With laurel plucked on rugged Kenesaw.
Envy it was that wrought the hero's fall,
Envy, with hydra-heads and serpent-tongues,
Hissed on the wolfish clamors of the Press.
O fickle Fortune, how thy favors fall--
Like rain upon the just and the unjust!
Throughout the army, as the soldiers read
The farewell-order, gloomy murmurs ran;
But our new chieftain cheered our drooping hearts.

"That Meade would choose his battle-ground we knew,
And if not his the gallant dash and dare
That on Antietam's bloody battle-field
Snatched victory from defeat, our faith was firm
That he would fight to win, and hold the reins
Firmly in hand, nor sacrifice our lives
In wild assaults and fruitless daring deeds.

"From Taneytown, at mid-day, on the hills
Of Gettysburg we heard the cannon boom.
Our gallant Hancock rode full speed away;
We under Gibbon swiftly following him
At midnight camped on Cemetery Hill.
Sharp the initial combat of the grand
On-coming battle, and the sulphurous smoke
Hung in blue wreaths above the silent vale
Between two hostile armies, mightier far
Than met upon the field of Marathon.
Or where the proud Carthago bowed to Rome.
Hope of the North and Liberty--the one;
Pride of the South--the other. On the hills--
A rolling range of rugged, broken hills,
Stretching from Round-Top northward, bending off
And butting down upon a silver stream--
In open field our veteran regiments lay.
Facing our battle-line and parallel--
Beyond the golden valley to the west--
Lay Seminary Ridge--a crest of hills
Covered with emerald groves and fields of gold
Ripe for the harvest: on this rolling range,
As numerous as the swarming ocean-fowl
That perch in squadrons on some barren isle
Far in the Arctic sea when summer's sun
With slanting spears invades the icy realm,
The Southern legions lay upon their arms.
As countless as the winter-evening stars
That glint and glow