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The Veteran's Vision

WHILE my wife at my side lies slumbering, and the wars
        are over long,
And my head on the pillow rests at home, and the mys–
        tic midnight passes,
And through the stillness, through the dark, I hear, just
        hear, the breath of my infant,
There in the room, as I wake from sleep, this vision
        presses upon me:
The engagement opens there and then, in my busy brain
        unreal;
The skirmishers begin—they crawl cautiously ahead—
        I hear the irregular snap! snap!
I hear the sounds of the different missiles—the short
         t-h-t! t-h-t! of the rifle balls;
I see the shells exploding, leaving small white clouds—
        I hear the great shells shrieking as they pass;
The grape, like the hum and whirr of wind through the
        trees, (quick, tumultuous, now the contest rages!)
All the scenes at the batteries themselves rise in detail
        before me again;
The crashing and smoking—the pride of the men in
        their pieces;
The chief gunner ranges and sights his piece, and selects
        a fuse of the right time;
After firing, I see him lean aside, and look eagerly off
        to note the effect;
—Elsewhere I hear the cry of a regiment charging—
        (the young colonel leads himself this time, with
        brandish’d sword;)
I see the gaps cut by the enemy’s volleys, (quickly
        fill’d up—no delay;)
I breathe the suffocating smoke—then the flat clouds
        hover low, concealing all;
Now a strange lull comes for a few seconds, not a shot
        fired on either side;
Then resumed, the chaos louder than ever, with eager
        calls, and orders of officers;
While from some distant part of the field the wind wafts
        to my ears a shout of applause, (some special
        success;)
And ever the sound of the cannon, far or near, (rousing,
        even in dreams, a devilish exultation, and all the
        old mad joy, in the depths of my soul;)
And ever the hastening of infantry shifting positions—
        batteries, cavalry, moving hither and thither;
(The falling, dying, I heed not—the wounded, dripping
        and red, I heed not—some to the rear are hob–
        bling;)
Grime, heat, rush—aid-de-camps galloping by, or on a
        full run;
With the patter of small arms, the warning s-s-t of the
        rifles, (these in my vision I hear or see,)
And bombs bursting in air, and at night the vari-color’d
        rockets.

Drum-Taps

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