They halt for a moment--they form and they stand;
Then with sabers aloft they ride down on our band
Like the samiel that sweeps o'er Arabia's sand.
"Halt!--down with your sabers!--the dying are here!
Let the foeman respect while the friend sheds a tear."
Nay; the merciless butchers were thirsting for blood,
And mad for the murder still onward they rode.
"_Stand firm and be ready_!"--Our brave, gallant few
Have faced to the foe, and our rifles are true;
Fire!--a score of grim riders go down in a breath
At the flash of our guns--in the tempest of death!
They wheel, and they clutch in despair at the mane!
They reel in their saddles and fall to the plain!
The riderless steeds, wild with wounds and with fear,
Dash away o'er the field in unbridled career;
Their stirrups swing loose and their manes are all gore
From the mad cavaliers that shall ride them no more.
Of the hundred so bold that rode down on us there
But few rode away with the tale of despair;
Their proud, plumed comrades so reckless, alas,
Slept their long, dreamless sleep on the blood-spattered grass.
ONLY A PRIVATE KILLED
[The soldier was Louis Mitchell, of Co.
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