380 SKETCHES IN RHYME. 



Vain those sacrificial offerings ; for like vultures on their prey 

 Swoop the gathering hosts of Treason ; now the Patriots stand at bay ; 

 Now fall backward as they vainly strive the fierce advance to stay, 

 Vainly strive to save the day. 



Slowly, sullenly retreating from the horrors gathering round, 

 Him, our hero, they are leaving writhing on the reeking ground, 

 Grasping still his heated musket, smitten by a mortal wound. 

 While the horrors gather round. 



Oh, the anguish dire which fills him as he hears the foemen's yell. 

 When he sees them rush victorious up the highway where he fell. 

 Agonized in flesh and spirit, how he suffers, who can tell. 

 While his foes victorious yell ? 



Now he sees behind South Mountain smoke- veiled sink the reddening sun, 

 And the moon from out the east hills has her arching course begun ; 

 While the stars in fear and trembling peer through heaven one by one ; 

 Sadly gleaming one by one. 



Growing fainter in the distance, still he hears the tireless strife ; 

 Hears the far-off cannon pounding, sees the air with meteors rife. 

 Countless furies seem to mutter, " Blow for blow, and life for life ! " 

 Mid the yet unended strife. 



Sees the stubborn foemen slowly up the slopes of Round Top creep ; 

 Hears them as with shouts exultant rock and crag and wall they leap. 

 Till the brave " Reserves " of Crawford hurl them headlong from the 

 steep. 



Hard-won heights they could not keep. 



Hears their still more distant onset, strong in numbers, fierce of will. 

 Echoing from the graveyard-mantled heights of Cemetery Hill, 

 Till they turn back torn and shattered. Hushed the tumult, all is still. 

 Silence covers vale and hill. 



Still unsuccored lies that hero, while the full moon high o'erhead 

 Shows the writhing forms about him ; shows the gaping, palled dead ; 

 Murmuring not, although the bullet burns within as molten lead, 

 Murmuring not, though hope had fled. 



