Classic Poem

In all the battle galleries of time
Compulsion has no picture like to it.
It hangs there as from fiery mist emerged —
The high lights weird with blaze of miracle;
The strong lines deep and crossing, black and red;
Wild surge of luridness and crimson foam;
Madness assaulting Nature's fastnesses,
And fury dashing destiny with murk
Inexorable as tumultuous.
And under all masses of marching men,
Marching unstopping and unstoppable
Straight upon carnage, as though bowls of wrath
Were emptied from apocalyptic skies;
And over all the White Battalions wheeling.

Onward the two vast armies pressed, each driven
By forces irresistible — none knew,
Nor Lee, nor Meade, nor any other, where —
To one fixed point of meeting, helpless each
Beneath those Powers unseen, — one towards the east,
One towards the north, and each untowards the other.

As thus they marched, the two great armies marched,
Amidst his legions, Longstreet by his side,
Rode the South's Mighty Captain, ordering
His troops along the hot and dusty ways
Through Blue Ridge passes, over fertile fields,
And to the spot where many roads converged
Commanding every section round about.

And to that spot where many roads converged
Commanding every section round about,
The veteran skirmishers of Meade made haste,
With eye and ear attent to their new Chief
Who held the mighty Union Army fast
Beside Pipe Creek waiting assured advance.

And there they met — the pickets of both hosts —
There where the roads of destiny converged.
And there they clashed — the guards of North and South —
There where the White Battalions had decreed.
And there they battled — Blues and Grays of Fate —
There, round God's little town of Gettysburg.