Contesting nature and the foe, -
Hoping for some decisive blow.
One night on picket guard I stood,
Surrounded by a multitude
Of dead and dying soldiers. They
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Were luckless wearers of the gray
Whom we had put to rout that day.
The moon shone brightly, and the air
Was still, save for some dying prayer
Or groan or curse; and even these
Grew fainter, fainter by degrees
As the poor vanquished sank to rest
Upon the battle-field's dank breast.
At length, quite near my post, I heard
A long-drawn sob, a whispered word!
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