The spirit of democracy. [volume] (Woodsfield, Ohio) 1844-1994, 1866-11-20
. otttg.
THE BIvOUAC OF THE DEAD.

1 1OWluS pOCAn 10 uocu d5 du luSCIlpLlOA ~
some of our national cemeteries, and thel
has been considerable inquiry as to It's, or
gin. The poem was written by Captai
O'Harra, of Kentucky, on the occasion {
the removal to the cemetery at Frankfo
of the remains of Kentucky soldiers wh
fell at Buena Vista:]
The mufled drums sad roll has beat
The soldiers last tattoo;
No more on life's parade shall meet
The brave and fallen few.
On Fame's eternal camping ground
! Their silent tears are spread,
And glory guards, with solemn round,
The bivouac of the dead.
No rumor of the foes advance
Now sweeps upon the wind,
No troubled thought at midnight's haunt
OF loved ones left behind.
No vision of the morrow's strife
The warriors dreams;
Nor braying horn, nor screaming fife,
At dawn shall call to arms.
Their shivered swords are red with rust,
Their plumed 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 tho proud forms, by battle gashed,
Are freed 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 wars wild note, nor glory's peal,
Shall thrill with fierce delight
Those breasts that never more may feel
The rapture's of the fight.
For like the dreadful hurricane
That sweeps the wild plateau,
Flushed with the ttiumph, yet 70 gain,
Came down the serried foe;
Who heard the tempest of the fray
Break o'er the field beneath,
Knew well the watchword of that day
Was "Victory or DEATH"
Long had tie doubtful conflict ragged
Across the surging plain,
For ne'er such fight before had waged
The fiery sons of Spain;
And still the storm of battle blew,
Still swelled the CORY tide
Not long, our stout old chieftaiu knew,
Such odds his strength could bide.
Twas in that hour his stern command
Called to a martyrs grave
The flower of his own beloved land
The nations flag to save.
By rivers of their fathers gore
His irst-born laurels grew,
And well he deemed the sons would pour
Their lives for glory tool
|
Full many Northern breath hath swept.
Ger Angostura's plain,
And long the pitying sky hath wept
Above her mouldering slain;
The ravens scream, or eagles fight,
Or shepherds pensive lay,
Alone awakes each sullen height
That frowned on that dread fray.
Sons of the "dark and bloody ground"
Ye should not slumber there,
Where stranger steps and tongues resound
Along the needless air;
Your own proud lands heroic soil
Must be your filter grave;
She claims from war her richest spoil
The ashes of the bravel
Now, meath their parent turf they rest,
Far from the CORY field,
Borne to Spartan mothers breast,
On many bloody shield;
The sunshine of their native sky
Smiles sadly on them here,
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by
, The soldiers sepulchre.
Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead,
Dear as the blood ye gave!
No impious footsteps here shall tread
The herbage of yeur grave;
Nor shall your glory be forgot
While Fame her record keeps,
: Our honor points the hallowed spot
Where valor proudly sleeps.
L l.
Yon faithful herald's blazoned stone.
With faithful pride shall tell,
When many vanished age hath flown,
The story how ye fell.
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winters fight,
Nor times remorseless doom,
Shall mar one ray of glory's light
That gilds your deathless tomb,