Bear him to no dismal tomb under city churches;
Take him to the fragrant fields, by the silver birches,
Where the whip-poor-will shall mourn, where the
oriole perches:

Make his mound with sunshine on it,
Where the bee will dine upon 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:
Where the rain may rain upon it,
Where the sun may shine upon it,
Where the lamb hath lain upon it,
And the bee will dine upon it.

Sunshine in his heart, the rain would come full often
Out of those tender eyes which evermore did soften:
He never could look cold till we saw him in his coffin.
Make his mound with sunshine on it,
Plant the lordly pine upon it,

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
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 rumor 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 plumèd 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 past;

Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal,
Shall thrill with fierce delight
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, 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
O'er all that stricken plain,
For never fiercer fight had waged
The vengeful blood of Spain;
And still the storm of battle blew,
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
The flower of his beloved land,

The nation's flag to save.
By rivers of their fathers' gore

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
O'er Angostura's plain,

And long the pitying sky has wept
Above its mouldered slain.
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,
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.

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 of their native sky
Smiles sadly on them here,

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
The herbage of your grave;

Nor shall your story 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 song shall tell,

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
That gilds your deathless tomb.

Theodore O'Hara.

DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER

CLOSE his eyes; his work is done!
What to him is friend or foeman,
Rise of moon, or set of sun,
Hand of man, or kiss of woman?
Lay him low, lay him low,

In the clover or the snow!

What cares he? he cannot know:
Lay him low!

As man may, he fought his fight,
Proved his truth by his endeavor;

Let him sleep in solemn night,
Sleep forever and forever.

Lay him low, lay him low,

In the clover or the snow!

What cares he? he cannot know:
Lay him low!