Army of Northern Virginia, army of legend, Who were your captains that you could trust them so surely, Who were your battle-flags? Call the shapes from the mist, Call the dead men out of the mist and watch them ride. Tall the first rider, tall with a laughing mouth, His long black beard is combed like a beauty’s hair, His slouch hat plumed with a curled black ostrich-feather, He wears gold spurs and sits his horse with the seat Of a horseman born. It is Stuart of Laurel Hill, “Beauty” Stuart, the genius of cavalry, Reckless, merry, religious, theatrical, Lover of gesture, lover of panache, With all the actor’s grace and the quick, light charm That makes the women adore him⁠—a wild cavalier Who worships as sober a God as Stonewall Jackson, A Rupert who seldom drinks, very often prays, Loves his children, singing, fighting, spurs, and his wife. Sweeney his banjo-player follows him. And after them troop the young Virginia counties,