The Ely miner. [volume] (Ely, Minn.) 1895-1986, 1935-05-24

grass region of Kentucky. The
boy was named Theodore O'Hara and when he
grew up he was sent TO st. Joseph's college al
Bardstown, where he was graduated with high
honors. Then followed a brief period of law
practice after which he went to Washington tC
work in the Treasury department.
But it was a dull job for a fighting Irish
man" so a few years later found him captain
in the United States army When the War with
Mexico ended, he came back to the Bluegrass
a major. There were other Kentuckians who
came back alsO-to rest in the soil of their
native state. When they were buried at Frank.
fort, Major O'Hara, standing on a grassy hill.
side in the midst of a great crowd, recited a
poem which he had written in tribute to his
fallen comrades. 1t was:
THE RIVoUAc OF THE DEAD
The muffled drums sad roll has beat
The soldiers last tattoo;
No more on lifes 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 swells 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;
40 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 the proud forms, by battle gashed,
Are free 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 nevermore may feel
The rapture Of the fight.
Like the fierce northern hurricane
That sweeps his great plateau,
Flushed with the triumph yet TO gain
Came down the serried foe.
Who heard the thunder of the fray
Break DER the field beneath,
Knew well the watchword of that day
Was Victory or Death"
Long had the doubtful conflict ragged
Ger all that stricken plain,
For never fercer 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 bide.
Twas in that hour his stern command
Called to a martyrs grave
The flower of his beloved land,
The nations flag TO save.
BY rivers of their fathers gore
His frst-born laurels grew,
And well he deemed the sons would pour
Their lives for glory too.
Full many a northers breath has swept
Der Angostura's plain
And long the plying sky has wept
Above the moldering 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,
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.
Thus 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 heroes sepulcher.
Rest on. embalmed and sainted dead.
Dear as the blood We gave,
No impious footstep here shall tread
The heritage of your grave;
Nor shall your glory be forgot