THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD

Waikato Times, Volume XXVII, Issue 2191, 24 July 1886, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat The soldier's la*t 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 rumour of the foe's advance Now swells upon the wind, Nor troubled thought at mid-night haunts Of loved ones left behind. No vision of the morrow's strife The warrior's dream alarms, No braying horn, no screaming fife At dawn shall call to arms. Their shivered swords are red with rust, Their plumed heads are bowed, Their haughty 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 passed. Nor War's wild note, nor Glory's peal, Shall thrill with fierce delight Those breasts that never more may feel The rapture of the fight. Like the fierce northern hurricane That sweeps his great plateau, Flushed with the triumph yet to Rain, Come down the serried foe. Who heard the thunder of the fray Break o'er the field beneath, Knew well the watchword of that day Was "Victory or.Death !" ***** Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, Far from the gory field, Borne to a Spartan mother's breast On many a bloody shield. The sunshine nf their native sky Smiles sadly on them here, And kindred eyes and hearts watch by The hero's sepulchre. Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead ! Dear is the blood you gave— No impious footsteps here shall tread The herbage of your grave. Nor shall your glory be forgot While Fame her record keeps, Or honour points the hallowed spot Where Valour proudly sleeps. Yon marble minstrel's voiceful stone, In deathless song shall tell, When many a vanished year hath flown, The story how you fell ; Nor Wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, Nor time's remorseless doom, Can dim one ray of holy light That gilds your glorious tomb. COLON'KIi O'HaRA.