JOHN BURNS AGAIN. 393 



Till the trees which in April bloomed with pearl, 

 Blushed red with the rain of that tempest whirl. 

 While the smoke-grimed imps in the " Devil's Den " 

 Were rifling the lives of our Round Top men, 

 And each rock on the slope of " Granite Spur " 

 Blazed with the fire of a skirmisher. 

 While round-shot, shell and musket ball 

 Were threshing the wheat so yellow and tall, 

 That gleamed in the valley far below 

 Alive with the charge of the coming foe, 

 Till the tangled straw seemed from the heights 

 Dotted all over with gruesome sights. 



And yet he lay while roared and raved 



The fight and the rent flags drooped or waved. 



Till the twilight shades came quivering down 



Over the sulphur waves of brown. 



When the fiery rebels of Hoke and Hays ; 



Were charging the Federal battle-blaze. 



When the gunners were tickling with rammer and swab 



Their gun-throats till with retch and throb 



They vomited hells of iron and fire 



On the torn waves rising higher and higher, 



Till they made them turn and backward pour 



With their wreckage crowding the sloping shore ; 



Flotsam and jetsam high and dry 



For the wreckers to gather by and by. 



And there he lay that terrible day. 



That final day when the grim array ; 



The storming column of Pickett stood 



Enmassed behind the screening wood. 



Left flanked and charged the meadow slopes, 



Of hopes forlon, forlornest of hopes ! 



Hi Hi * => ^ * 



The cannon which an hour or more 



Had vexed the air have ceased their roar. 



25 



