The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1885-07-04
THE DAY WE CELEBRATE.
Gettysburg.

Gettysburg.
Last Dag Of The Battle July 8, l6D,.
Hot beats the sun on this bright July morning;
Hotter yet blazes the great brazen sky;
But hottest of ali seem the heat waves uprising
Which sitting all nature leaves wtnered and dry.
The leaves on the tire es like fingers of dead men
Hang hstless aud lfeless power all gone;
While the Offering lances of grain in the wheatelds
Turn to silver and gold as the sun hurries on.
Over on Round Top the birds have ceased singing,
The cricket is hushed, bees do not hum
Everything deathlike, everything silent
A silence presaging storm soon to come.
On his short beat lone sentinel PAGES
His only movement slow, measured tread,
His only shelter old shriveled cherry tree
Which, DER his pathway rears its parched head.
Out in the sunlight our white tents are bleaching;
Here and there in the shadows reclne our brave
men,
Their thoughts, far away with loved ones and dear
ones,
Thinking not Of Hfe's twilight fast closing in
Noon and the desertlike stiffness is riven
By sound from the North. A low, heavy Jar,
As of thunder quick pealing, Of cannon fastirng
&c Comes sweeping along and we know it's red war.
We crawl from coverts, we listen intently,
We strain evry to catch the least sound
And at as like the pater of STORYTELLING rain drops,
We hear beating of hoofs they strike the hard
ground.
A dun cloud of dust draws closer and closer,
y horse and his rider emerge from its shade
The rider, all covered with dust from his journey
The horse. with blood where the rowes have played.
Where are your headquarters9' shouts the gray
horseman,
A thousand hands point, he fiys on his way
THE battle is on, your men are all wanted!'
The message delivered, he falls to the clay.
Instantly com es the weird blast of a bugle
Which rends the hot air like bolt from the sky;
1t quivers and means like the voice of one dying
1t calls to duty, to do and to die.
The lines fast forming adown the brown highway;
The buge blows Forward" The whole mighty
mass,
Like avalanche starting slowly, resistless-
Singing Star Spangled Banner, as onward they
pass.
Over the hill and we enter fierce battle;
Over the hill and the bright golden grain,
The grass and the flowers are fast turning crimson,
Deep dyed in the blood of the wounded and slain.
Like cebergs colliding like angry meeting,
Our forces are hurled ganst the oncoming foe:
We meet and are blended-red torrents outpourng,
Mark a scene of destruction, desolation and VICE.
The whistlng of bullets, the roaring of cannon,
The clashng of arms, the shrieking of she'll
The yells and tie curses, the groans of the dying
All woven together-a black, dismal hell.
And thus, for long hours Death harvest is winnowed
With thousands of bodies the green slope is paved;
But the war-storm is ceasng, the rebels fleeing
The Wet rvs ours-and the Union is saved.
Thu Day after the Fight, JulDi.
Here the wild bullets of battle flew thicktst
Here the brave soldiers Ike autumn-leaves fell;
Here the dark life-bood of kinsman and foe1nan
Commingled together-the fight was fought well.
The dews of the morning reflected the bloodstans;
The white light Of MONDAY illumines the dead
The black dust of battle settles over the sleepers
Who, here, mid the tombstones made their last bed
JUNE %, 1850. Chris. Van Deyanter.