Lundy's Lane, and Other Poems

But those are the years I remember as the brightest years of all, When we left the plow in the furrow to follow the bugle's call. Why, even our son Abner wanted to fight with the men! "Don't you go, d'ye hear, sir!"—I was angry with him then. "Stay with your mother!" I said, and he looked so old and grim— He was just sixteen that April—I couldn't believe it was him; But I didn't think—I was off—and we met the foe again, Five thousand strong and ready, at the hill by Lundy's Lane. There as the night came on we fought them from six to nine, Whenever they broke our line we broke their line, They took our guns and we won them again, and around the levels Where the hill sloped up—with the Eighty-ninth,—we fought like devils Around the flag;—and on they came and we drove them back, Until with its very fierceness the fight grew slack. It was then about nine and dark as a miser's pocket, When up came Hercules Scott's brigade swift as a rocket, And charged,—and the flashes sprang in the dark like a lion's eyes; The night was full of fire—groans, and cheers, and cries; Then through the sound and the fury another sound broke in— The roar of a great old duck-gun shattered the rest of the din; It took two minutes to charge it and another to set it free. Every time I heard it an angel spoke to me; Yes, the minute I heard it I felt the strangest tide Flow in my veins like lightning, as if, there, by my side, Was the very spirit of Valor. But 'twas dark—you couldn't see— And the one who was firing the duck-gun fell against me And slid down to the clover, and lay there still; Something went through me—piercing—with a strange, swift thrill; The noise fell away into silence, and I heard as clear as thunder The long, slow roar of Niagara: O the wonder Of that deep sound. But again the battle broke And the foe, driven before us desperately—stroke upon stroke, Left the field to his master, and sullenly down the road Sounded the boom of his guns, trailing the heavy load Of his wounded men and his shattered flags, sullen and slow, Setting fire in his rage to Bridgewater mills and the glow