The Bivouac of the Dead
by
Theodore O'Hara (1820-1867) |
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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 to spread,
And glory
guards, with solemn round
The bivouac of the dead.
No rumor of the foe's advance
Now swells upon the
wind;
Nor troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of
loved ones left behind;
No vision of the morrow's strife
The warrior's dreams alarms;
No braying horn or
screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.
Their
shriveled swords are red with rust,
Their plumed 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 the great plateau,
Flushed
with triumph, yet to gain,
Come down the serried foe,
Who heard the thunder of the fray
Break o'er the
field beneath,
Knew the watchword of the 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.
Twas in
that hour his stern command
Called to a martyr's grave
The flower of his beloved land,
The nation's flag to
save.
By rivers of their father's gore
His
first-born laurels grew,
And well he deemed the sons
would pour
Their lives for glory too.
For many a
mother's breath has swept
O'er Angostura's plain --
And long the pitying sky has wept
Above its moldered
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 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
footstep here shall tread
The herbage of your grave;
Nor shall your glory be forgot
While Fame her record
keeps,
For honor points the hallowed spot
Where
valor proudly sleeps.
Yon marble minstrel's
voiceless stone
In deathless song shall tell,
When
many a vanquished ago has flown,
The story how ye fell;
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,
Nor
time's remorseless doom,
Can dim one ray of glory's
light
That gilds your deathless tomb. |
By Theodore O'Hara (1820-1867)
Listed February 7, 2013 |
About the Poem:
Although Theodore O'Hara wrote the poem
to honor Kentuckians slain during the Mexican War, it
was commonly used on both sides of the Civil War to
commemorate their slain companions. Even the gateway to
Arlington National Cemetery bears an inscription from
O'Hara's most noted poem. (O'Hara served in the U.S.
Army before serving in the Confederacy.) |
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