The tri-weekly standard. [volume] (Raleigh, N.C.) 1866-1868, 1867-05-21
Poetry.
THE B1voUAc OF THE DEAD.

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD.
THE following poem was written by Cal
tain O'Hara, of Kentucky, on the occasio
of the removal to the Cemetary at Frankfol
of the remains of Kentucky soldiers, who fe
and slept on the field of Buena Vista.
The muff1ed 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 sweeps upon the wind,
No troubled thought at midnight haun's'
Of loved ones left behind.
No vision of the morrows STRIFE
The warriors dream alarms;
Nor Drawing horn, nor screaming hfe
At dawn shall call to arms.
Their sbiyered 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 strains from each brow,
And the 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 raptures of the fight.
For like the dreadful hurricane
That sweeps the wild plateau,
Flushed with the triumph set to gain
Came down the serried foe;
Who heard the tempest of the fray
Break DER the field beneath,
Knew we'll the watchword of that day
Was Victory or death"
Long had the doubtful conflict ragged
Across the surging plain,
For ne'er such fight before had waged
The sons of fiery Spain;
And still the storm of battle blew,
Still swelled the CORY tide
Not long. our stout old chieftain knew,
Such odds his strength could bide.
Twas in that hour his stern command
Called to martyrs grave,
The flower of his beloved land,
The nations flag to save.
By rivers of their fathers gore
His first born laurels grew,
And we'll he deemed the sons would pour
Their lives for glory too
Full many Northern breath had swept
Ger Angostura's plain,
And long the pitying sky hath wept
Above her Wondering slain;
The ravens scream, or eagles flight,
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 his richest spoil
The ashes of the brave!
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 We gave
No impious footstep here shall tread
The herbarge OF your grave;
Nor shall your glory be forgot
While Fame her record keeps,
Or Honor points the hallowed spot
] IWhere Valor proudly sleeps
Yon faithful herald's blazoned stone
With mournful pride shall tell,
When many vanished age hath flown,
The story how We fell.
Nor wreck. nor change, nor winters flight,
Nor times remorseless doom,
Shall mar one ray of glory's light
That gilds your deathless tomb.