THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD
by: Theodore O'Hara (1820-1867)
- HE 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 nor 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 past;
- Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal,
- Shall thrill with fierce delight
- Those breasts that nevermore may feel
- The rapture of the fight.
-
- Like the 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."
-
- Long had the doubtful conflict raged
- O'er all that stricken plain,
- For never fiercer fight had waged
- The vengeful blood of Spain;
- And still the storm of battle blew,
- Still swelled the glory tide;
- Not long, our stout old chieftain knew,
- Such odds his strength could bide.
-
- 'T was in that hour his stern command
- Called to a martyr's grave
- The flower of his belovèd land,
- The nation's flag to save.
- By rivers of their fathers' gore
- His first-born laurels grew,
- And well he deemed the sons would pour
- Their lives for glory too.
-
- Full many a norther's breath has swept
- O'er Angostura's plain,
- And long the pitying sky has wept
- Above its mouldered slain.
- The raven's scream or eagle's flight,
- Or shepherd's pensive lay,
- Alone awakes each sullen 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 his richest spoil--
- The ashes of her brave.
-
- Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest,
- Far from the glory 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 footstep here shall tread
- The herbage of your grave;
- Nor shall your story 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 age hath flown,
- The story how ye fell;
- Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,
- Nor Time's remorseless doom,
- Shall dim one ray of glory's light
- That gilds your deathless tomb.
"The Bivouac of the Dead"
is reprinted from The Little Book of American Poets: 1787-1900.
Ed. Jessie B. Rittenhouse. Cambridge: Riverside Press, 1915. |
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