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 marytr'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,

And well he deemed the sons would pour
Their lives for glory too.

Full many a mother's breath has swept

O'er Angustora'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,

Born 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.

5

10

15

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
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.

BAYARD TAYLOR

A SONG OF THE CAMP

"Give us a song!" the soldiers cried,
The outer trenches guarding,
When the heated guns of the camps allied
Grew weary of bombarding.

The dark Redan, in silent scoff,

Lay, grim and threatening, under;

And the tawny mound of the Malakoff
No longer belched its thunder.