Читать книгу Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two - Various - Страница 12

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

That gilds your glorious tomb.