Classic Poem

It was a dreadful sight that July morn,
There at McPherson's farm, and thence across
The meadows, and that bloody afternoon
O'er fields, down roads, and through the village streets,
Confederates driving Federals in hot strife,
The carnage deepening as Blue ranks fell back
Towards Cemetery Ridge. It was a sight,
An immemorial sight, as suddenly
Against the western sky appeared the form
Of the great Southern Chief, a silhouette
In the fierce light. He sat upon his horse
And gazed upon the space bestrewn with dead.
The sun was setting on a red day — his.
And there was Cemetery Hill — for him.

The rumor of his presence, of his eyes
Fixed on contending legions, pricked men's souls,
As rowels mettled steeds, to fiercer strife.
And thus went forward o'er the slaughter tide
The Stars and Bars into the deepening gloom.
And all the while, outlined against the west,
He sat there calmly, but his soul was strained
By tempest of exultance and of pride
With his first view of Gettysburg — and triumph.