The southern press. [volume] (Washington [D.C.]) 1850-1852, 1850-12-12
The Burial OF the Buena vista Heroes
in the Frankfort Cemetery,
By THEODORE o'HARA.

By THEODORE HAhA'
The mufied drums sad roll has beat
The soldiers 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 foes advance
Now swelIs upon the wind.
No troubled thought at midnight haunts
Ofloved ones left behind.
No vision Of the morrow's strife
The warriors dream alarms,
No braylng horn, nor screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.
Their SILVER d swords are red with rust,
Their pumed heads are bowed,
Their naughty banner trailed In dust
Is now their martial shroud
And plenteous funeral tears have washed
The red stains from each brow,
And the proud orms by battle gashed
Are free from anguish now.
The neishing troop, the flushing blade,
The bugle's stirring blast,
The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout are past
Nor wars wild note, nor glory's peal
Shall thrill with fierce delight
Those breasts that never more may feel
The rapture Of the fight.
Like the dread northern hurricane
That sweeps the wild plateau
Flush d with the triumph he should gain
Came or the serrled foe
Who heard the thunder Of therfray
Break DER the field beneath
Knew we'll the watch-word Of that day
Was victory or death.
Long had the doubtful comba, ragged
Across that stricken plain
For ne 'er such fight before had waged
The bloody sons OF Spain
And still the storm Of battle blew,
Still sweled the cory tide
Not long, our stout old cheftain knew,
Such odds his strength could bde.
Twas in that hour his stern command
Called to a martyrs grave
The flower of his own loved land
The nations flag to save.
BY rivers Of their fathers gore
His frst-born laurel s grew,
And well he deem d the sons would pour
Their lives for glory too.
Full many norther's breath has swept
Ger Ansostura plain,
And long the plying sky has wept
Above her moulder'd slain.
The raven s scream, or eagles flight,
Or shepherd s pensve lay
Alone awakes each sullen height
That frowned Ger that dread fray.
Sons Of the Dark and Bloody Ground!
Ye must not slumber II ere,
Where stranger steps and tongues resound
Along the needless air.
Your own proud lands heroic soil
Shall be your filter grave.
She claims from War, his richest spoil,
The ashes Of her brave.
Beneath their parent turf they rest,
Far from the CORY field,
Borne to a Spartan mothers breast
On many bloody shield.
The sunshine Of their nati.e sky
Smiles sadly on them here,
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by
The heroes sepulchre.
Rest on! embalmed and sainted dead
Dear as the blood We gave
No impious foots'ep here shall tread
The heritage your grave.
Nor shall your glory be forgot
While Fame her record keeps,
Or Honor points the haIowed spot
Where Valor proudly sleeps.
Yon marble herald s blazoned stone
With mournful pride shall tell,
When many a vanished age hath flown,
The story how we fell.
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winters bligh
Nor Times remorseess doom
Shall dim one ray of holy light
That gilds your glorious tomb.