Bear him to no dismal tomb under city churches; Make his mound with sunshine on it, Where the lamb hath lain upon it, And the rain will rain upon it. Busy as the bee was he, and his rest should be the clover; Gentle as the lamb was he, and the fern should be his cover; Fern and rosemary shall grow my soldier's pillow over: Sunshine in his heart, the rain would come full often Where the moon may stream upon it, And memory shall dream upon it. "Captain or Colonel,” whatever invocation Suit our hymn the best, no matter for thy station, On thy grave the rain shall fall from the eyes of a mighty nation! Long as the sun doth shine upon it Shall glow the goodly pine upon it, THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD 91 Long as the stars do gleam upon it Shall memory come to dream upon it. Thomas William Parsons. 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 And Glory guards, with solemn round, No rumor of the foe's advance Now swells upon the wind; No troubled thought at midnight haunts The warrior's dream alarms; No braying horn nor screaming fife Their shivered swords are red with rust; And plenteous funeral tears have washed And the proud forms, by battle gashed, The neighing troop, the flashing blade, The charge, the dreadful cannonade, Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal, 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 o'er the field beneath, Knew well the watchword of that day Was "Victory or Death." Long had the doubtful conflict raged Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, 'Twas in that hour his stern command The nation's flag to save. His first-born laurels grew, THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD 93 And well he deemed the sons would pour Their lives for glory too. Full many a norther's breath has swept And long the pitying sky has wept Alone awakes each sullen height That frowned o'er that dread fray. Sons of the dark and bloody ground, Where stranger steps and tongues resound Your own proud land's heroic soil Shall be your fitter grave; 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 On many a bloody shield; And kindred eyes and hearts watch by The heroes' sepulcher. Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead! Dear as the blood ye gave; No impious footstep here shall tread Nor shall your story be forgot, Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone When many a vanished age hath flown, Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, Shall dim one ray of glory's light Theodore O'Hara. DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER CLOSE his eyes; his work is done! In the clover or the snow! What cares he? he cannot know: As man may, he fought his fight, Let him sleep in solemn night, Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! What cares he? he cannot know: |