  L Like a furnace of fire blazed the midsummer sun, When to saddle we leaped at the order, Spurred on by the boom of the deep-throated gun That told of the foe on our border. A mist in our rear lay Antietam’s dark plain, And thoughts of its carnage came o’er us; But smiling beyond surged the fields of ripe grain, And we swore none should reap it before us.That night, with the ensign who rode by my side, On the camp’s dreary edge I stood picket, Our ears intent lest every wind-rustle hide A foe’s stealthy tread in the thicket; And there, while we watched the first arrows of dawn Through the veil of the rising mists quiver, He told how the foeman had closed in upon His home by the Tennessee River. He spoke of a sire in his weakness cut down, With his last breath the traitor-flag scorning; But one of the rangers had cheated his fate— For him he would search the world over: Such cool-plotting passion, such keenness of hate, Ne’er saw I in woman-scorned lover. Oh, who would have thought that beneath those dark curls Lurked vengeance as sure as death-rattle; Or fancied those dreamy eyes, soft as a girl’s, Could light with the fury of battle? To horse! pealed the bugle, while grape-shot and shell Overhead through the forest were crashing; A cheer for the flag—and the summer light fell On the blades from a thousand sheaths flashing. As mad ocean-waves to the storm-revel flock, So on we dashed, heedless of dangers; A moment our long line surged back at the shock, Then swept through the ranks of the Rangers. I looked for the ensign. Ahead of his troop, Pressing on through the conflict infernal, At evening, returned from pursuit of the foe, By a shell-shattered caisson we found him; And we buried him there in the sunset’s red glow, With the dear old flag knotted around him. Yet how could we mourn, when each drum’s muffled strain Told of foemen hurled back in disorder,— When we knew the North reaped her rich harvest of grain, Unharmed by a foe on her border! Banner John Burns
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