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Pickett's Charge.

The sunbeams flashed on Gettysburg,
And ushered in the day
That saw the serried lines in blue
Confront the ranks in gray.
They touched a banner rainbow-hued
With field of shining stars;
They lighted up a crimson flag
Crossed with silver bars.
The fire flashed on Gettysburg.
The wave of battle roared.
And hissing through the clouds of smoke
The hail of iron poured.
Along the ranks of faded gray
The gory gaps enlarge,
When down the order comes from Lee
For Pickett's men to charge.
A moment, ere those grand brigades
Dare all that hellish brunt:
A moment, as the bugle calls
"The colors to the front!"
And fiercely flashed each Southern eye,
Nor reck they of the loss
Of life, as their flag goes waving by,
With its shining silver cross.
"March!" 'Tis the tramp of chivalry.
A shout! 'Tis: "Pickett comes!"
The echoes cross that fateful field
O'er the thunder of the guns.
A double-quick to the line of smoke:
To close--a moment's stand:
Then, at the clarion sound of "Charge!"
In plunge the whole command.
Up to the mouths of the belching guns
That stand at the gates of hell.
The bayonets shimmer like mimic suns
As they drive to the Southern yell:
While proudly topping the crest of smoke,
Held higher, ever higher,
Over the plain and up the slope,
Goes the cross on the flag of fire.
The storm of death strikes Gettysburg
Upon that fateful day,
As, reeling back from the belching guns
Come the shattered ranks of gray.
Over the plain and down the slope,
What's left of Pickett's men,
With the tattered rags of the crimson flag
Held high to the last--Amen.
To-day those sons of Gettysburg
Sleep 'neath the verdant sod,
We honor their names and deck their graves
With the lovely flowers of God.
The crimson flag with the silver cross
Is gently laid away,
But the heart of the South will cherish its loss
Forever -aye and aye.