|
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
|
