The Bivouac of the Dead
The muffled drum's sad roll has beat |
The soldier's last tattoo; |
No more on life's parade shall meet |
That brave and fallen few. |
On fame's eternal camping ground |
Their silent tents are spread, |
And Glory guards with solemn round |
The bivouac of the dead. |
No rumor of the foe's advance |
Now swells upon the wind; |
No troubled thought at midnight haunts |
Of loved ones left behind; |
No vision of the morrow's strife |
The warrior's dream alarms; |
No braying horn or screaming fife |
At dawn shall call to arms. |
Their shivered swords are red with rust; |
Their plumèd heads are bowed; |
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, |
Is now their martial shroud; |
And plenteous funeral tears have washed |
The red stains from each brow; |
And the proud forms, by battle gashed, |
Are free from anguish now. |
The neighing troop, the flashing blade, |
The bugle's stirring blast, |
The charge, the dreadful cannonade, |
The din and shout are passed. |
Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal, |
Shall thrill with fierce delight |
Those breasts that nevermore shall feel |
The rapture of the fight. |
Like a fierce northern hurricane |
That sweeps his great plateau, |
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, |
Came down the serried foe, |
Who heard the thunder of the fray |
Break o'er the field beneath, |
Knew well the watchword of that day |
Was "Victory or Death!" |
Full many a mother's breath hath swept |
O'er Angostura's plain, |
And long the pitying sky hath wept |
Above its moulder'd slain. |
The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, |
Or shepherd's pensive lay, |
Alone now wake each solemn height |
That frowned o'er that dread fray. |
Sons of the "dark and bloody ground," |
Ye must not slumber there, |
Where stranger steps and tongues resound |
Along the heedless air! |
Your own proud land's heroic soil |
Shall be your fitter grave; |
She claims from war its richest spoil— |
The ashes of her brave. |
Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, |
Far from the gory field, |
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast |
On many a bloody shield. |
The sunshine of their native sky |
Smiles sadly on them here, |
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by |
The heroes' sepulcher. |
Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead! |
Dear as the blood ye gave; |
No impious footsteps here shall tread |
The herbage of your grave; |
Nor shall your glory be forgot |
While fame her record keeps, |
Or honor points the hallowed spot |
Where Valor proudly sleeps. |
Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone |
In deathless song shall tell, |
When many a vanished year hath flown, |
The story how ye fell. |
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, |
Nor time's remorseless doom, |
Can dim one ray of holy light
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