Our gallant Hancock rode full speed away;
We under Gibbon swiftly following him
At midnight camped on Cemetery Hill.
Sharp the initial combat of the grand
On-coming battle, and the sulphurous smoke
Hung in blue wreaths above the silent vale
Between two hostile armies, mightier far
Than met upon the field of Marathon.
Or where the proud Carthago bowed to Rome.
Hope of the North and Liberty--the one;
Pride of the South--the other. On the hills--
A rolling range of rugged, broken hills,
Stretching from Round-Top northward, bending off
And butting down upon a silver stream--
In open field our veteran regiments lay.
Facing our battle-line and parallel--
Beyond the golden valley to the west--
Lay Seminary Ridge--a crest of hills
Covered with emerald groves and fields of gold
Ripe for the harvest: on this rolling range,
As numerous as the swarming ocean-fowl
That perch in squadrons on some barren isle
Far in the Arctic sea when summer's sun
With slanting spears invades the icy realm,
The Southern legions lay upon their arms.
As countless as the winter-evening stars
That glint and glow above the frosted fields
Twinkled and blazed upon that crest of hills
The camp-fires of the foe.
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