THE MUFFLED drum’s sad roll has beat | |
| The soldier’s last tattoo; | |
| No more on Life’s parade shall meet | |
| That brave and fallen few. | |
| On Fame’s eternal camping-ground | 5 |
| Their silent tents are spread, | |
| And Glory guards, with solemn round, | |
| The bivouac of the dead. | |
| |
| No rumor of the foe’s advance | |
| Now swells upon the wind; | 10 |
| 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 | 15 |
| At dawn shall call to arms. | |
| |
| Their shivered swords are red with rust, | |
| Their plumèd heads are bowed; | |
| Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, | |
| Is now their martial shroud. | 20 |
| 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, | 25 |
| The bugle’s stirring blast, | |
| The charge, the dreadful cannonade, | |
| The din and shout, are past; | |
| Nor war’s wild note nor glory’s peal | |
| Shall thrill with fierce delight | 30 |
| 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, | 35 |
| Came 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.” | 40 |
| |
| Long had the doubtful conflict raged | |
| O’er all that stricken plain, | |
| For never fiercer fight had waged | |
| The vengeful blood of Spain; | |
| And still the storm of battle blew, | 45 |
| Still swelled the gory tide; | |
| Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, | |
| Such odds his strength could bide. | |
| |
| ’Twas in that hour his stern command | |
| Called to a martyr’s grave | 50 |
| The flower of his beloved land, | |
| The nation’s flag to save. | |
| By rivers of their fathers’ gore | |
| His first-born laurels grew, | |
| And well he deemed the sons would pour | 55 |
| Their lives for glory too. | |
| |
| Full many a norther’s breath has swept | |
| O’er Angostura’s plain— | |
| And long the pitying sky has wept | |
| Above its mouldered slain. | 60 |
| The raven’s scream, or eagle’s flight, | |
| Or shepherd’s pensive lay, | |
| Alone awakes each sullen height | |
| That frowned o’er that dread fray. | |
| |
| Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, | 65 |
| 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; | 70 |
| She claims from war his richest spoil— | |
| The ashes of her brave. | |
| |
| Thus ’neath their parent turf they rest, | |
| Far from the gory field, | |
| Borne to a Spartan mother’s breast | 75 |
| 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’ sepulchre. | 80 |
| |
| Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead! | |
| Dear as the blood ye gave; | |
| No impious footstep here shall tread | |
| The herbage of your grave; | |
| Nor shall your glory be forgot | 85 |
| While Fame her record keeps, | |
| Or Honor points the hallowed spot | |
| Where Valor proudly sleeps. | |
| |
| Yon marble minstrel’s voiceless stone | |
| In deathless song shall tell, | 90 |
| When many a vanished age hath flown, | |
| The story how ye fell; | |
| Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter’s blight, | |
| Nor Time’s remorseless doom, | |
| Shall dim one ray of glory’s light | 95 |
| That gilds your deathless tomb. | |
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