What history, I say, can ever give--for who can know--the mad,
determin'd tussle of the armies, in all their separate large and
little squads--as this--each steep'd from crown to toe in desperate,
mortal purports? Who know the conflict, hand-to-hand--the many
conflicts in the dark, those shadowy-tangled, flashing moonbeam'd
woods--the writhing groups and squads--the cries, the din, the
cracking guns and pistols--the distant cannon--the cheers and calls
and threats and awful music of the oaths--the indescribable mix--the
officers' orders, persuasions, encouragements--the devils fully rous'd
in human hearts--the strong shout, _Charge, men, charge_--the flash
of the naked sword, and rolling flame and smoke? And still the broken,
clear and clouded heaven--and still again the moonlight pouring
silvery soft its radiant patches over all. Who paint the scene,
the sudden partial panic of the afternoon, at dusk? Who paint the
irrepressible advance of the second division of the Third corps, under
Hooker himself, suddenly order'd up--those rapid-filing phantoms
through the woods? Who show what moves there in the shadows, fluid and
firm--to save, (and it did save,) the army's name, perhaps the nation?
as there the veterans hold the field. (Brave Berry falls not yet--but
death has mark'd him--soon he falls.)
UNNAMED REMAINS THE BRAVEST SOLDIER
Of scenes like these, I say, who writes--whoe'er can write the story?
Of many a score--aye, thousands, north and south, of unwrit heroes,
unknown heroisms, incredible, impromptu, first-class desperations--who
tells? No history ever--no poem sings, no music sounds, those bravest
men of all--those deeds.
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