The Vermont watchman. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1883-1911, 1898-09-21
SELECTED POETRY.
The BivOuac OF the Dead.

PUBLISHED BY REQUEsT)
The mufiled drums sad roll has beat
The soldiers last TAFT 90;
No more on life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.
On Fame's eternal camping ground
Their silent tents are spread,
But Glory guards with solemn round,
The bivouac OF the dead.
No rumor OF the foes advance
Now swels upon the wind;
No troubled thought at midnight haunts
OF loved ones left behind;
No vision of the morrow's strife
The warriors dream alarms;
No braying horn nor streaming 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 the proud forms, by battle gashed,
Are free from anguish now.
The neighboriI 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 Of the fight.
n Like the fierce Northern hurricane
That sweeps his great plateau,
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,
Came down the SERTED foe.
Who heard the thunder of the fray
Break DER the field beneath,
Knew well the wstchword of that day
Was "Vctory or death"
Long has the doubtful conflict ragged
Der 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 CORY tide;
Not long our stout old chieftain knew,
Such odds his strength could hide.
Twas in that hour his stern command
Called to a martyrs grave
The flower of his beloved land,
The nations flag to cave.
BY rivers of their fathers gore
His firstborn laurels grew
And well he deemed the sons would pour
Their lives for glory, too.
run many northern bi east has swept
Der Angostura's plain
And long the plying sky has wept
Above the Wondering slain.
The ravens scream, or eagles flight,
Or shepherds pensive lay,
Alone awakes each sullen height
That frowned DER that dread fray
Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground,
You 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.
Thus meath their parent turf they rest,
Far from the CORY field,
Borne to 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 you gave,
No impious footsteps here shall tread
The heritage of your grave;
Nor shall your glory be forgot
While Fame her record keeps,
Or Honor points the hallowed spot
Where Valor proudly eeps.
Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone
In deathless song shall tell
When many a vanquished age hath flown
The story how ye fell;
Nor wreck nor change, nor winters blight,
Nor Times remorseless doom,
Shall dim one ray OF glory's light
That gilds your deathless tomb,
Theodore O'Hai