Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two. VariousЧитать онлайн книгу.
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 or 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 passed. |
| Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal, |
| Shall thrill with fierce delight |
| Those breasts that nevermore shall feel |
| The rapture of the fight. |
| Like a 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!" |
| Full many a mother's breath hath swept |
| O'er Angostura's plain, |
| And long the pitying sky hath wept |
| Above its moulder'd slain. |
| The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, |
| Or shepherd's pensive lay, |
| Alone now wake each solemn 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 its 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 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 song shall tell, |
| When many a vanished year hath flown, |
| The story how ye fell. |
| Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, |
| Nor time's remorseless doom, |
|
Can dim one ray of holy light
|