1 P. M.

An order given

Requires withdrawal from the front

Of regiments that bore the brunt

Of morning's fray. Their ranks all riven

Are being replaced by fresh, strong men.

Great vigilance in the foeman's Den;

He snuffs the stormers. Need it is

That for that fell assault of his,

That rout inflicted, and self-scorn —

Immoderate in noble natures, torn

By sense of being through slackness overborne —

The rebel be given a quick return:

The kindest face looks now half stern.

Balked of their prey in airs that freeze,

Some fierce ones glare like savages.

And yet, and yet, strange moments are —

Well — blood, and tears, and anguished War!

The morning's battle-ground is seen

In lifted glades, like meadows rare;

The blood-drops on the snow-crust there

Like clover in the white-week show —

Flushed fields of death, that call again —

Call to our men, and not in vain,

For that way must the stormers go.