Rebellion Record: a Diary of American Events: Poetry and Incidents., Volume 7.
Frank Moore, Ed.

Frank Moore, Esq.: dear Sir: Perhaps this is too late. Perhaps it is not good enough to appear in the rebellion record.

It is nevertheless true, and although its author does not pretend to be a poet, he would wish to record the instance, the singularity of which may attract readers to it, and cause it to be remembered. The hero, Weed, was a citizen of New-York. Of Hazlett I know nothing except that he was a dear friend of Weed's, and in the same regiment, the Fifth United States artillery, a First Lieutenant, and appointed from Ohio.

An incident at Gettysburgh.

“On to the Round Top!” cried Sykes to his men;
“On to the Round Top!” was echoed again;
“On to the Round Top!” said noble Steve Weed;
Now comes the hour for the Southron to bleed.

Weed's fierce artillery foremost in fight;
Rebels! prepare ye for death or for flight:
Weed's fierce artillery, dreaded of old,
Belching destruction — refulgent as gold.

On toward the Round Top, revolve the strong wheels,
Spurned is the ground by the war-horses' heels;
Ploughed is the furrow with shrapnel and ball,
Little avails them the field's friendly wall.

Lee's serried ranks are mowed down as the corn
Falls 'neath the cradle on hot harvest morn.
Bold Mississippians, pause and take breath,
Weed is before you — beside him is death!

On to the Round Top! the Round Top we gain!
Falls gallant Weed from a ball — is he slain?
Prone on the earth he lies heavily sighing,
Near him lie gallant men wounded and dying.

“Hazlett, come hither,” sighed Weed as he lay;
“Hither, my friend — I have something to say.”
Hazlett rushed forward, bent down, raised his head--
Whistles a mine — ball — Hazlett is dead!

Dead ere Weed uttered the words he would speak;
Dead are both heroes on field, cheek to cheek ;
Mingling their dying thoughts — their dying breath;
Grasped by each other — united in death.

Thus fell the gallant artill'ry men twain
In the supreme hour of victory slain,
Just as the Round Top was won from the foe,
And rebels shall never recover that blow.

Long may History's muse her fair pages adorn
With the names of the heroes who fell on that morn;
Who fell for the Union--for Freedom who fell--
Let Fame sound her trumpet proclaiming who fell.