Dallas herald. [volume] (Dallas, Tex.) 1849-1873, 1868-06-06

mock the destroying tooth Of Time. u
tlower,besprent soil OF Alabama hides
moldered casket Of a nobler soul.
tNiTsinius liuiohen.
The BiVouac Of the Dead.
ny THEODORE o'nARA.
The muflled drums sad roll has beat
The soldiers last tattoo;
No more ON lfe's parade shall meet
That brave aud fallen few.
On Fame's eternal camping ground
Their silent tents are spread,
And Glory guards with solemn round
The biyouac Of the dead
No rumor Of the foes advance
Now swclls upon the wind;
No troubled thought, ai midnight, haunts
or loved ones left behind;
No vision Of the mOrrow's strife
The warriors dream alarms;
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 uailed in dust
Is now their martial shrou1;
And plenteous funeral tears hare washed
The red stains from each brow,
And the proud forms by battle gashed
Are free from anguish now.
The neghing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugles stirring blast,
The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din aud shout are past;
Nor wars wild note, nor glory's peal
Shall thrill with fiercc delight
Those breasts that never more may feel
The rapture Of the fight.
Like the fierce Northern hurricane
That sweeps his broad plateau,
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,
Came down the serried foe.
Who heard the thunder Of the fay
Break DER the field beneath,
Knew we'll the watchword of the day
Was "Victory or DEATH"
Long had the doubtful conflict ragged
Ger all that stricken plain,
For never tiercer fight had waged
The vengeful blood of Spain;
And still the storm Of battle blew,
Still swelled the CORY tide
Not long our stout old chieftan knew
Such odds his strength could bide.
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 irst-born laurels grew,
And well he deemed the sons would pour
Their lives for glory, too.
Full many Norther's breath hath swept
Ger Angosturas plain
And long the plying sky has wept
Above its modered slain.
The ravens scream, or eagles flight,
Or shepherds pcnsive lay,
Alone awake each sullen hight
That frowned Ger that dread fray.
Sons of the Ozark and Bloody Ground"
Ye must not slumber there,
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.
So meath their parent turf they rest,
Far from the CORY field,
Borne to a Spartan mothers 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 hero's 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,
Or Honor points the hallowed spot
Where Valor proudly sleeps.
Yon marble minstrels voiceful stone
In deathless song shall tell,
When many a vanished age hath flown,
The story how we fell;
Nor wreck, nor change nor winters blight,
Nor Times remorseless doom,
Can dim one ray of holy light
That gilds your glorious tomb.