So fled the anxious hours until the hills
Sent forth their silent shadows to the east--
And then their batteries opened on our left
Advanced into the valley. All along
The rolling crest of Seminary Ridge
Rolled up the smoke of cannon. Answered then
The grim artillery on our chain of hills'
And heaven was hideous with the bellowing boom,
The whiz of shot, the infernal shrieks of shells.
Down from the hills their charging columns came
A glittering mass of steel. As when the snow
Piled by an hundred winters on the peak
Of cloud-robed Bernard thunders down the cliffs,
Nor rocks nor forests stay the mighty mass,
And men and flocks in terror fly the death,
So thundering fell the columns of the foe,
Crushing through Sickles' corps in front and flank;
And, roaring onward like a mighty wind,
They rushed for Little Round-Top--rugged hill,
Key to our left and center--all exposed--
Manned by a broken battery half unmanned.
But Hancock saw the peril. On stalwart steed
Foam-flecked, wide-nostriled, panting like a hound,
That stalwart soldier--Spartan to the soles--
Came dashing down where, prone along the ridge
Upon the right, our sheltered regiment lay.
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