Winding among the hills and pouring out
Along the vernal valleys; so the sheen
Of moving bayonets glittered in the sun. 
And as we marched there rolled upon the air,
Up from the vanguard-corps, a choral chant,
Feeble at first and far and far away,
But gathering volume as it rolled along
And regiment after regiment joined the choir,
Until an hundred thousand voices swelled
The surging chorus, and the solid hills
Shook to the thunder of the mighty song. 
And ere it died away along the line,
The hill-tops caught the chorus—­rolled away
From peak to peak the pealing thunder-chant,
Clear as the chime of bells on Sabbath morn: 

“’John Brown’s body lies moldering in the grave;
John Brown’s body lies moldering in the grave;
John Brown’s body lies moldering in the grave;
      But his soul is marching on. 
        Glory, Glory, Halleluia! 
        Glory, Glory, Halleluia! 
        Glory, Glory, Halleluia! 
      His soul is marching on!’

“And far away
The mountains echoed and re-echoed still—­
        “’Glory, Glory, Halleluia! 
        Glory, Glory, Halleluia! 
        Glory, Glory, Halleluia! 
      His soul is marching on!’

“Until the winds
Bore the retreating echoes southward far,
And the dull distance murmured in our ears.

“Fast by the field where gallant Baker fell,
We crossed the famous river and advanced
To Frederick.  There a transitory cloud
Gloomed the Grand Army—­Hooker was relieved: 
Fell from command at victory’s open gate
The dashing, daring, soul-inspiring chief,
The idol of his soldiers, and they mourned. 
He had his faults—­they were not faults of heart—­
His gravest—­fiery valor.  Since that day,
The self-same fault—­or virtue—­crowned a chief
With laurel plucked on rugged Kenesaw. 
Envy it was that wrought the hero’s fall,
Envy, with hydra-heads and serpent-tongues,
Hissed on the wolfish clamors of the Press. 
O fickle Fortune, how thy favors fall—­
Like rain upon the just and the unjust! 
Throughout the army, as the soldiers read
The farewell-order, gloomy murmurs ran;
But our new chieftain cheered our drooping hearts.

“That Meade would choose his battle-ground we knew,
And if not his the gallant dash and dare
That on Antietam’s bloody battle-field
Snatched victory from defeat, our faith was firm
That he would fight to win, and hold the reins
Firmly in hand, nor sacrifice our lives
In wild assaults and fruitless daring deeds.

“From Taneytown, at mid-day, on the hills
Of Gettysburg we heard the cannon boom. 
Our gallant Hancock rode full speed away;
We under Gibbon swiftly following him
At midnight camped on Cemetery Hill. 
Sharp the initial combat of the grand
On-coming battle, and the sulphurous smoke
Hung in blue wreaths above the silent vale