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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=117251" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Gettysburg</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Though the winds be strong that lash along the steeds of the charging sea,<br>With lunge and urge of assaulting surge yet seeking a further goal,<br>God in His pleasure hath set a measure, the bound of their boast to be,<br>Where, pile upon pile, and mile on mile, are the cliffs of calm control.<br>But the Lord of Hosts who guardeth the coasts yet loveth each sieging swell,<br>And He who is Brother to surge and smother is Brother to cliff as well:<br>He giveth the word if the shore be stirred, He biddeth the sea subside,<br>And this is our trust, that His will is just, however He turn the tide!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As night went gray at the touch of day and the slow dawn mounted higher,<br>On the Federal right the third day’s fight was born in a sheet of fire:<br>Gun upon gun to the front was run, and each in its turn spoke forth<br>From fevered mouth to the waiting South the word of the watching North:<br>And the wraith of Death with withering breath o’er the wide arena played,<br>As across the large swept on the charge of the old Stonewall brigade;<br>But the first great wave on a sudden gave, retreating across the slain—<br>Gave and broke, as the rifles spoke from the long blue line of Kane!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then silence sank on the double rank deployed on the sullen hill,<br>And, across the plain of the early slain, the hosts of the South were still,<br>Waiting, each, till further speech from the guns should dart and din—<br>Sign to the brave that the final wave of the tide was rolling in.<br>Adown the line like a draught of wine the presence of Hancock came,<br>And eyes grew bright in the steadfast light of his own that blazed to flame;<br>For the Federals knew, where his banner blew—and they saw their leader ride,<br>That a righteous God on that sea of sod had decreed a turn of tide!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So came one, when a signal gun awoke on the Southern side,<br>And Hunt’s brigade with a cannonade to the challenge of Lee replied,<br>Like arrows sent from a bow well bent to the heart of a distant targe,<br>Virginia’s hope rode down the slope, with Pickett leading the charge!<br>Steady and slow, as soldiers go in some serried dress parade,<br>With flags a-dance in their cool advance came the gallant gray brigade,<br>And steady and slow, as if no foe on the frowning heights abode,<br>To the cannon’s breath, to the scythe of Death, Pickett, their leader, rode.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">God! what a mile he led them! From the slope they sought to scale,<br>Sullen and hot, the swingeing shot was hurling its awful hail:<br>Where a long ravine ploughed through the green they halted, anew to form,<br>And then, with a cheer, to the ridge’s sheer they swept like a summer storm.<br>Hand to hand at the guns they manned, the Federals fought and fell,<br>Where Armistead his regiment led up the cannister-harrowed swell,<br>He touched a gun—for a breath he won the crest of the Union’s pride—<br>Then over the hill Jehovah’s will decreed the turn of the tide!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Taken in flank each gallant rank of Pickett’s battalions gave,<br>Trampled and tossed, since hope was lost, there was left but life to save;<br>Beaten back on the travelled track, they faltered, and broke, and fled,<br>And, swinging his scythe, Death claimed his tithe in the pale and patient dead!<br>For the arm of the Lord had raised the sword that man may not gainsay,<br>’Twixt the cause of the Free and the cause of Lee the issue no longer lay;<br>For the word of the Lord had gone abroad that the strife of the right had won,<br>And Freedom’s foe at the call bowed low and answered “Thy will be done!”</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Pickett, ah, Pickett, the staunchest heart in the Southern host that day,<br>Hail to the brave in the last great wave of the long and fearful fray,<br>That broke in foam on the trampled loam of that tempest trampled mount—<br>In the glory born of a hope forlorn they passed to their last account!<br>Meade, ah, Meade, there are hearts that bleed for your host that fought and fell,<br>When the final charge broke on the marge of a hillside turned to Hell!<br>Yet this the speech on the crag-girt beach that the sea proclaims for aye,<br>And this the word that the cliffs unstirred through the ages still reply:</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Though the winds be strong that lash along the steeds of the charging sea,<br>With lunge and urge of assaulting surge yet seeking a further goal,<br>God in His pleasure hath set a measure, the bound of their boast to be,<br>Where, pile upon pile, and mile on mile, are the cliffs of calm control.<br>But the Lord of Hosts who guardeth the coasts yet loveth each sieging swell,<br>And He who is Brother to surge and smother is Brother to cliff as well:<br>He giveth the word if the shore be stirred, He biddeth the sea subside,<br>And this is our trust, that His will is just, however He turn the tide!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Guy+Wetmore+Carryl">Guy Wetmore Carryl</a> from <i>The Garden of Years and Other Poems</i><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=117251" data-title="Gettysburg de Guy Wetmore Carryl" data-description="Though the winds be strong that lash along the steeds of the charging sea,/With lunge and urge of assaulting surge yet seeking a further goal,/God in His pleasure hath set a measure, the bound of their boast to be,/Where, pile upon pile, and mile ..."></div>
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