Matthews Hill

By Roy D. Follendore III

Its green grass grows

and has longer grown still

since they called out their names

on a line on this hill.

When those Union flags waved

as the ridge cannons reeled

catching Jackson off guard,

which they accomplished until,

near that house of red stone,

Southern shoals all alone

they were called to their duty

to set the war's tone.

So with fear in their eyes

and the salt of their breath

these soldiers of battle

met their expectations of death.

Rushing forward in line

as their battle ground waved

where the few blocked those thousands

for this land they might save.

For the balance of war

in this field and it's rise

lay their fight for States Rights

through the smoke in their eyes

War drums could not quite

that first Rebel yell roar

though cannons drew silence

from those throats that they tore.

And as the Blue stood this ridge

and their shots made earth foam

this Grey line never wavered,

it just gave a deep groan.

Where the bitter ash smoked

where crackled wood sounds

matched the wounded and dying

in which they were found.

Where that battered line cursed

where rose those deep stains

where blood flowed with tears

now forms dew in Spring rains,

Oh Gray lines, our dead Fathers

who fought with such pride,

who brought lessons we've learned,

we are unable to hide,

lead us forward from those fates

of war's glory implied,

as did those most able of men

who cried out when they died.

For the tranquility of this rise

is impossible to teach

without the souls of brave Rebels

who filled in this breach,

leaving lovers and Mothers

and all they could feel

who would call out their sweet names

on the side of this hill.

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