Viii

All is quiet till one o'clock; Then the hundred and fifty guns, Metal loaded with metal in tons, Massed by Lee, send out their shock. And, with a movement magnificent, Pickett, the golden-haired leader, Thousands and thousands flings onward, as if he sent Merely a meek interceder. Steadily sure his division advances, Gay as the light on its weapons that dances. Agonized screams of the shell The doom that it carries foretell: Rifle-balls whistle, like sea-birds singing; Limbs are severed, and souls set winging; Yet Pickett's warriors never waver. Show me in all the world anything braver Than the bold sweep of his fearless battalions, Three half-miles over ground unsheltered Up to the cannon, where regiments weltered Prone in the batteries' blast that raked Swaths of men and, flame-tongued, drank Their blood with eager thirst unslaked. Armistead, Kemper, and Pettigrew Rush on the Union men, rank against rank, Planting their battle-flags high on the crest. Pause not the soldiers, nor dream they of rest, Till they fall with their enemy's guns at the breast And the shriek in their ears of the wounded artillery stallions. So Pickett charged, a man indued With knightly power to lead a multitude And bring to fame the scarred surviving few.