The sun of Gettysburg rose on the 1st of July and saw the army of the
gray already advancing in line of battle; the army of the blue still
hastening eagerly forward and converging to this point. The glory of
midsummer filled this landscape as if nature had arrayed a fitting scene
for a transcendent event. Once more the unquailing lines so long arrayed
against each other stood face to face. Once more the inexpressible
emotion mingled of yearning memory, of fond affection, of dread
foreboding, of high hope, of patriotic enthusiasm and of stern resolve,
swept for a moment over thousands of brave hearts, and the next instant
the overwhelming storm of battle burst. For three long, proud, immortal
days it raged and swayed, the earth trembling, the air quivering, the
sky obscured; with shouting charge, and rattling volley, the thundering
cannonade piling the ground with mangled and bleeding blue and gray, the
old, the young, but always and everywhere the devoted and the brave.
Doubtful the battle hung and paused. Then a formidable bolt of war was
forged on yonder wooded height and launched with withering blasts and
roar of fire against the foe.
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