The Bivouac Of The Dead

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat
 The soldier's last tattoo;
 No more on life's parade shall meet
 The brave and daring 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;
 No troubled thought at midnight haunts
 Of loved ones left behind;
 No vision of the morrow's strife
 The warrior's dream alarms;
 No braying horn nor 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 their proud forms in battle gashed
 Are free from anguish now.
 The neighing steed, the flashing blade,
 The trumpet's stirring blast,
 The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
 The din and shout are past;
 No war's wild note, nor glory's peal,
 Shall thrill with fierce delight
 Those breasts that never more shall feel
 The rapture of the fight.
 Like the dread northern hurricane
 That sweeps this broad plateau,
 Flushed with the triumph yet to gain
 Came down the serried foe;
 Our heros felt the shock, and leapt
 To meet them on the plain;
 And long the pitying sky hath wept
 Above our gallant slain.
 Sons of our consecrated ground,
 Ye must not slumber there,
 Where stranger steps and tongues resound
 Along the heedless air.
 Your own proud land's heroic soil
 Shall be your fitter grave;
 She claims from War his richest spoil -
 The ashes of her brave.
 So '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 of their native sky
 Smiles sadly on them here,
 And kindred hearts and eyes watch by
 The heroes' sepulcher.
 Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!
 Dear as 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 Honor points the hallowed spot
 Where Valor proudly sleeps.
 Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone
 In deathless songs shall tell,
 When many a vanished age hath flown,
 The story how ye fell;
 Nor wreck, nor change, or winter's blight
 Not Time's remorseless doom,
 Shall dim one ray of holy light
 That gilds your glorious tomb.