Beauregard, eager sabreur , whose heart was a French Print of a sabretasche-War with “La Gloire” written under it, Lovable, fiery, bizarre, picturesque as his name, Galloped toward Mitchell’s Ford with bald, quiet Joe Johnston, The little precise Scotch-dominie of a general, Stubborn as flint, in advance not always so lucky, In retreat more dangerous than a running wolf⁠— Slant shadow, sniffing the traps and the poisoned meat, And going on to pause and slash at the first Unwary dogs before the hunters came up. Grant said of him once, “I was always anxious with Joe Johnston in front of me, I was never half so anxious in front of Lee.” He kissed his friends in the Nelson-way we’ve forgotten, He could make men cheer him after six-weeks retreating. Another man said of him, after the war was done, Still with that puzzled comparison we find When Lee, the reticent sword, comes into the question, “Yes, Lee was a great general, a good man;