conflicts in the dark, those shadowy-tangled, flashing moonbeam'd
woods--the writhing groups and squads--the cries, the din, the
cracking guns and pistols--the distant cannon--the cheers and calls
and threats and awful music of the oaths--the indescribable mix--the
officers' orders, persuasions, encouragements--the devils fully rous'd
in human hearts--the strong shout, _Charge, men, charge_--the flash
of the naked sword, and rolling flame and smoke? And still the broken,
clear and clouded heaven--and still again the moonlight pouring
silvery soft its radiant patches over all. Who paint the scene,
the sudden partial panic of the afternoon, at dusk? Who paint the
irrepressible advance of the second division of the Third corps, under
Hooker himself, suddenly order'd up--those rapid-filing phantoms
through the woods? Who show what moves there in the shadows, fluid and
firm--to save, (and it did save,) the army's name, perhaps the nation?
as there the veterans hold the field. (Brave Berry falls not yet--but
death has mark'd him--soon he falls.)


UNNAMED REMAINS THE BRAVEST SOLDIER

Of scenes like these, I say, who writes--whoe'er can write the story?
Of many a score--aye, thousands, north and south, of unwrit heroes,
unknown heroisms, incredible, impromptu, first-class desperations--who
tells? No history ever--no poem sings, no music sounds, those bravest
men of all--those deeds. No formal general's report, nor book in the
library, norcolumn in the paper, embalms the bravest, north or south,
east or west. Unnamed, unknown, remain, and still remain, the bravest
soldiers. Our manliest--our boys--our hardy darlings; no picture gives
them. Likely, the typic one of them (standing, no doubt, for hundreds,
thousands,) crawls aside to some bush-clump, or ferny tuft, on