The Bivouac of the Dead.

Waikato Times, Volume XXV, Issue 2036, 25 July 1885, Page 2 (Supplement)

The Bivouac of the Dead.

TnK fnmons verses nf Colonel Theortow O'Flnra on the Kentuckians, who fr»ll in Iho Mexican war: Tim mn filed drnm'a cad roll has beat The soldior'n laet tattoo No moro on life's parade Khali meet That brave and fallen f?\v, On Fame's eternal camping ground Their Hilent tenti art) sproad, And glory guardi wit,h solemn round Tho bivouac of the dead. No rumor of the foe's advanca Now swells upon the wind, No troublfiil thought at midnight hauut3 Of loved ones luft behind. No vision of the morrow's strife The warrior's dream alarms; No braying horn, no screaming fife, At dawn shall call to arras. Th«r shivered swords arc red withxnrr, Their plumed heads are bowed ; Their haughty banner trailed in dost U now their martial shroui; And plenteous funeral tears have washed Tho r«d BtairiB from each brow. And tho proud forms by bufctlo gashed And free from anguish now. The neighing troops, tho flathing blades, The buglo'ffatirriDg blast, Thn charge, the dreadful cannonade, The din and shout are past. On war's wild not«a, nor plory's peal, Shall thrill with fierce delight Those breasts that nevermore may feel The rapture of the fight. Like the fierce northern hurricane That Jiwepps his great plateau, Flushed wilh the triumph yet to gain, Come down th n Herried foe. Who heard the thunder of the fray Break o'er the iield beneath, Enow well the watchword of that day Was " Victory or death." Foil many a norther's breath bus swept O'er Angostura's plain, And long the pitying oky has wept Abovo it's moulder'd plain. The raven's scream, or eaglo's flight, Or Shepherd's pensive lay, Alone now wake tach solemn night That frowned o'er that dread fray. Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, Ye must not slumber tbero, Where stranger stops and tongues resound Along the needless air. Your own proud land's heroio soil Shall be your fitter grave ; She claims from war its richest spoil— The ashes of her bravo. Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, Far from the gory field, Borne to & Spartan mother's breast On many a bloody Bhield, The sunshine of their native sky Smiles eadly on them here, And kindred eyes and hearts watch by The hero's sepulohre. Best on, embalmed and sainted dead I Dear is the blood you gave ; No impious footsteps here shall tread ' The herbage of your grave ; Nor shall her glory be forgot While Fame your record keeps, Or honor points the hallowed spot Where valor proudly sleeps. Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone In deathless song shall tell, When many a vanished year hath flown, The story bow you fell, Nor weak, nor ohange, nor winter's blight, Nor Time's remorseless doom, Can dim one ray of holy light That gilds your glorious tomb.