Gettysburg.

O pride of the days in prime of the months

Now trebled in great renown,

When before the ark of our holy cause

Fell Dagon down —

Dagon foredoomed, who, armed and targed,

Never his impious heart enlarged

Beyond that hour; god walled his power,

And there the last invader charged.

He charged, and in that charge condensed

His all of hate and all of fire;

He sought to blast us in his scorn,

And wither us in his ire.

Before him went the shriek of shells —

Aerial screamings, taunts and yells;

Then the three waves in flashed advance

Surged, but were met, and back they set:

Pride was repelled by sterner pride,

And Right is a strong-hold yet.

Before our lines it seemed a beach

Which wild September gales have strown

With havoc on wreck, and dashed therewith

Pale crews unknown —

Men, arms, and steeds. The evening sun

Died on the face of each lifeless one,

And died along the winding marge of fight

And searching-parties lone.

Sloped on the hill the mounds were green,

Our center held that place of graves,

And some still hold it in their swoon,

And over these a glory waves.

The warrior-monument, crashed in fight,

Shall soar transfigured in loftier light,

A meaning ampler bear;

Soldier and priest with hymn and prayer

Have laid the stone, and every bone

Shall rest in honor there.