Sunday, November 7, 2010

I Continued in the Tallest Running Match of My Life.
Motts Run, Chancellorsville, Spotsylvania--
"At about the same time I felt that some part of my accouterment on the left side had given way; instinctively grasping for whatever it might be, I caught the straps of a leather pouch and of a haversack in my left hand, they had both been severed by a bullet, without halting, I continued in the tallest running match of my life, seemingly swinging my booty, i.e. my own provisions, in triumph, while the sword, in my right in its gyrations seemed thirsting for blood and the metal scabbard on my left was indented and bent by another bullet."

The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle's stirring blast,
The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shouts are past;
Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal,
Shall thrill with fierce delight;
Those breasts that never more may feel
The rapture of the fight.

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