The increasing moonlight drifts across my bed, 
And on the churchyard by the road, I know 
It falls as white and noiselessly as snow . . . . 
'Twas such a night two weary summers fled; 
The stars, as now, were waning overhead. 
Listen! Again the shrill-lipped bugles blow 
Where the swift currents of the river flow 
Past Fredericksburg; far off the heavens are red 
With sudden conflagration; on yon height, 
Linstock in hand, the gunners hold their breath; 
A signal rocket pierces the dense night, 
Flings its spent stars upon the town beneath; 
Hark! -- the artillery massing on the right, 
Hark! -- the black squadrons wheeling down to Death!