As resolute in defeat as other generals in their proudest
     triumphs?

I must copy the story, and send it eastward and westward,
I must preserve that look as it beam'd on you rivers of
     Brooklyn.

See — as the annual round returns the phantoms return,
It is the 27th of August and the British have landed,
The battle begins and goes against us, behold through the
     smoke Washington's face,
The brigade of Virginia and Maryland have march'd forth to
     intercept the enemy,
They are cut off, murderous artillery from the hills plays
     upon them,
Rank after rank falls, while over them silently droops the
     flag,
Baptized that day in many a young man's bloody wounds,
In death, defeat, and sisters', mothers' tears.

Ah, hills and slopes of Brooklyn! I perceive you are more
     valuable than your owners supposed;
In the midst of you stands an encampment very old,
Stands forever the camp of that dead brigade.

(1861-2?) 1881

span class="tex">\nobreakCAVALRY CROSSING A FORD

A line in long array where they wind betwixt green islands,
They take a serpentine course, their arms flash in the sun —
    hark to the musical clank,
Behold the silvery river, in it the splashing horses loitering
     stop to drink,
Behold the brown-faced men, each group, each person a picture,
     the negligent rest on the saddles,
Some emerge on the opposite bank, others are just entering the ford — while,
Scarlet and blue and snowy white,
The guidon flags flutter gayly in the wind.

1865 1871

BIVOUAC ON A MOUNTAIN SIDE

I see before me now a traveling army halting,
Below a fertile valley spread, with barns and the orchards of
     summer,
Behind, the terraced sides of a mountain, abrupt, in places
     rising high,
Broken, with rocks, with clinging cedars, with tall shapes
     dingily seen,
The numerous camp-fires scatter'd near and far, some away
     up on the mountain,
The shadowy forms of men and horses, looming, large-sized,
     flickering,
And over all the sky — the sky! far, far out of reach, studded,
     breaking out, the eternal stars.

1865 1871

AN ARMY CORPS ON THE MARCH

With its cloud of skirmishers in advance,
With now the sound of a single shot snapping like a whip,
     and now an irregular volley,
The swarming ranks press on and on, the dense brigades
     press on,
Glittering dimly, toiling under the sun — the dust-cover'd
     men,
In columns rise and fall to the undulations of the ground,
With artillery interspers'd — the wheels rumble, the horses
     sweat,
As the army corps advances.

1865-6 1871

BY THE BIVOUAC'S FITFUL FLAME

By the bivouac's fitful flame,
A procession winding around me, solemn and sweet and slow —
    but first I note,
The tents of the sleeping army, the fields' and woods' dim
     outline,
The darkness lit by spots of kindled fire, the silence,
Like a phantom far or near an occasional figure moving,

The shrubs and trees, (as I lift my eyes they seem to be
     stealthily watching me,)
While wind in procession thoughts, O tender and wondrous
     thoughts,
Of life and death, of home and the past and loved, and of
     those that are far away;
A solemn and slow procession there as I sit on the ground,
By the bivouac's fitful flame.

1865 1867