 | The poetical works of John Townsend Trowbridge |  |
THE COLOR-BEARER
'T was a fortress to be stormed:
Boldly right in view they formed,
All as quiet as a regiment parading:
Then in front a line of flame!
Then at left and right the same!
Two platoons received a furious enfilading.
To their places still they filed,
And they smiled at the wild
Cannonading.
Boldly right in view they formed,
All as quiet as a regiment parading:
Then in front a line of flame!
Then at left and right the same!
Two platoons received a furious enfilading.
To their places still they filed,
And they smiled at the wild
Cannonading.
“'T will be over in an hour!
'T will not be much of a shower!
Never mind, my boys,” said he, “a little drizzling!”
Then to cross that fatal plain,
Through the whirring, hurtling rain
Of the grape-shot and the minie-bullets' whistling!
But he nothing heeds nor shuns,
As he runs with the guns
Brightly bristling!
'T will not be much of a shower!
Never mind, my boys,” said he, “a little drizzling!”
Then to cross that fatal plain,
Through the whirring, hurtling rain
Of the grape-shot and the minie-bullets' whistling!
But he nothing heeds nor shuns,
As he runs with the guns
Brightly bristling!
Leaving trails of dead and dying
In their track, yet forward flying
Like a breaker where the gale of conflict rolled them,
With a foam of flashing light
Borne before them on their bright
Burnished barrels,—O, 't was fearful to behold them!
While from ramparts roaring loud
Swept a cloud like a shroud
To enfold them!
In their track, yet forward flying
Like a breaker where the gale of conflict rolled them,
With a foam of flashing light
Borne before them on their bright
Burnished barrels,—O, 't was fearful to behold them!
While from ramparts roaring loud
Swept a cloud like a shroud
To enfold them!
O, his color was the first!
Through the burying cloud he burst,
With the standard to the battle forward slanted!
Through the belching, blinding breath
Of the flaming jaws of Death,
With the banner on the bastion to be planted!
By the screaming shot that fell,
And the yell of the shell,
Nothing daunted.
Through the burying cloud he burst,
39
Through the belching, blinding breath
Of the flaming jaws of Death,
With the banner on the bastion to be planted!
By the screaming shot that fell,
And the yell of the shell,
Nothing daunted.
Right against the bulwark dashing,
Over tangled branches crashing,
'Mid the plunging volleys thundering ever louder,
There he clambers, there he stands,
With the ensign in his hands,—
O, was ever hero handsomer or prouder?
Streaked with battle-sweat and slime
And sublime in the grime
Of the powder!
Over tangled branches crashing,
'Mid the plunging volleys thundering ever louder,
There he clambers, there he stands,
With the ensign in his hands,—
O, was ever hero handsomer or prouder?
Streaked with battle-sweat and slime
And sublime in the grime
Of the powder!
'T was six minutes, at the least,
Ere the closing combat ceased,—
Near as we the mighty moments then could measure,—
And we held our souls with awe,
Till his haughty flag we saw
On the lifting vapors drifting o'er the embrasure,
Saw it glimmer in our tears,
While our ears heard the cheers
Rend the azure!
Ere the closing combat ceased,—
Near as we the mighty moments then could measure,—
And we held our souls with awe,
Till his haughty flag we saw
On the lifting vapors drifting o'er the embrasure,
Saw it glimmer in our tears,
While our ears heard the cheers
Rend the azure!
| The poetical works of John Townsend Trowbridge | |