Between two hostile armies, mightier far
Than met upon the field of Marathon. 
Or where the proud Carthago bowed to Rome. 
Hope of the North and Liberty—­the one;
Pride of the South—­the other.  On the hills—­
A rolling range of rugged, broken hills,
Stretching from Round-Top northward, bending off
And butting down upon a silver stream—­
In open field our veteran regiments lay. 
Facing our battle-line and parallel—­
Beyond the golden valley to the west—­
Lay Seminary Ridge—­a crest of hills
Covered with emerald groves and fields of gold
Ripe for the harvest:  on this rolling range,
As numerous as the swarming ocean-fowl
That perch in squadrons on some barren isle
Far in the Arctic sea when summer’s sun
With slanting spears invades the icy realm,
The Southern legions lay upon their arms. 
As countless as the winter-evening stars
That glint and glow above the frosted fields
Twinkled and blazed upon that crest of hills
The camp-fires of the foe.  Two mighty hosts,
Ready and panoplied for deadliest war,
And eager for the combat where the prize
Of victory was empire—­for the foe
An empire borne upon the bended backs
Of toiling slaves in millions—­but for us,
An empire grounded on the rights of man—­
Lay on their arms awaiting innocent morn
To light the field for slaughter to begin.

“Silent above us spread the dusky heavens,
Silent below us lay the smoky vale,
Silent beyond, the dreadful crest of hills. 
Anon the neigh of horse, a sentry’s call,
Or rapid hoof-beats of a flying steed
Bearing an aid and orders, broke the dread,
Portentous silence.  I was worn and slept.

“The call of bugles wakened me.  The dawn
Was stealing softly o’er the shadowy land,
And morning grew apace.  Broad in the east
Uprose above the crest of hazy hills
Like some broad shield by fabled giant borne,
The golden sun, and flashed upon the field. 
Ripe for the harvest stood the golden grain,
Nodding on gentle slopes and dewy hills. 
Ready for the harvest death’s grim reapers stood
Waiting the signal with impatient steel;
And morning passed, and mid-day.  Here and there
The crack of rifles on the picket-line,
Or boom of solitary cannon broke
The myriad-voiced and dreadful monotone. 
So fled the anxious hours until the hills
Sent forth their silent shadows to the east—­
And then their batteries opened on our left
Advanced into the valley.  All along
The rolling crest of Seminary Ridge
Rolled up the smoke of cannon.  Answered then
The grim artillery on our chain of hills’
And heaven was hideous with the bellowing boom,
The whiz of shot, the infernal shrieks of shells. 
Down from the hills their charging columns came
A glittering mass of steel.  As when the snow
Piled by an hundred winters on the peak
Of cloud-robed Bernard thunders down the cliffs,