GETTYSBURG 1863

by Constance Trump

(Gettysburg, Pa.)

Day One.

Day One.
A morning mist like teardrops kissed
slate silhouettes at break of day
riding from the west on their quest
with little left to say.
Buford’s steeds thundered through the fields
leaving silence on their heels
and blades of grass that bid them pass
amidst their graceful sway.
While yonder, with weary marching feet
from Chambersburg in sweltering heat
Rebs paused beneath lush woods of green
and wondered what the day would bring.
The Yanks rode hard, the Rebs advanced
not much was left to happenstance
in Gettysburg each met his prey
and shrieking, slaughtered through the day
that saw the Rebels sweep the street
and Yankees make a swift retreat
to nearby hills and knolls.
From their vantage point the Yanks looked down
on quaint three story homes of town
and churches that, transformed to wards
were strewn with bloody sheaths and swords
of those who rode and those that marched
at that early morning’s dawn.

Day Two.

Two fish hooks formed outside of town
Cemetery Hill was Yankee ground
Rebs faced the Round Tops along Seminary Ridge
while at the Roger House, not far away
young Josephine Miller baked all day
with heavy heart, warm and true
hot bread for the boys in blue.
The fight that followed was courage and grit
in the Valley of Death many were hit
at sundown when the fire ceased
a bright moon shone an eerie peace
upon the carnage all around.
Few men slept and many wept
with Bibles resting next to guns
tin cups by crackling fires lay
as fathers, brothers, sons and kin
reflected on what might have been,
what could have been
what should have been
that now was lost, at such a cost
life seemed to be a bitter pill
as dawn’s light slowly stroked the hill.
Many missed their wives and mothers
even those who fought their brothers
for a cause each thought was right
dreamt of going home that night
far away from the bleak brigade
and sanguine fields bereft of shade
to awaken to a soft caress
and perhaps some distant welcome trill
of a calliope’s serenade.
Meanwhile General Lee had a strategy
to destroy the Federal flank
but Meade prevailed, and though he’d failed
Lee by no means shrank.
Heart tinged with sorrow
he planned the morrow
to strike the Yankee core
he thought for awhile
then with a sad smile
chose Longstreet for the chore.

Day Three.

Crickets sang, the birds chimed in
at the dawn of that third day
as wounded moaned and horses groaned
air reeked from flesh decay.
Both sides felt a sense of doom
and longed to end the desperate gloom.
An attempt to hit before the dawn
had left the Rebs a skelter
and running for the nearest
tree or rock that offered shelter.
Thirteen thousand southern soldiers
formed in precision line parade
as 1:00 p.m. the awful din
of artillery shook the glade.
For two hours more the cannons tore
a path towards Cemetery Ridge
as the mighty line in one accord
made peace with whom each praised as Lord.
The cannonade’s cacophony finally began to quell
and each man knew that was his cue
to step out through the mouth of hell
Pickett’s voice through smoke arose
high above the fray;
“Up men, up and to your posts
and let no man forget today
that you are from Old Virginia!”
“Virginia, Virginia, Virginia”,
his troops all roared as one
while each presenting bayonet and shouldering a gun.
Armistead’s sword swirled the smoke
and cut a sweeping arch
“Virginians, for your lands, for your homes,
for your sweethearts, for your wives
for Virginia….FORWARD M A R C H!
Black clouds cracked with a ray of light
as thirteen thousand men of might
stormed through shrouds of fuming fires,
drummers drumming, flags unfurled
swords extended, clenched fists hurled!
The Yankees saw the Rebel charge
from high upon their ridge
and furiously fought that wall of men
who faltered, then came back again
closing in their ranks, still advancing on the Yanks.
Hand to hand the Blue and Gray
fought in such a savage way
that tears are shed until this day.
Then one by one the guns fell still
the scorched earth caked with blood
from broken bodies on the ground
where once the brave had stood.
The rest is history, so they say
thousands of brave men died that day
giving it their very best
in unmarked graves they’re laid to rest.
The Ones whose dreams did not come true
the Ones who fought and never knew
the Ones for whom each valley and dome
of the Battlefield
was now their home.

The End.

The End.