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

The brave and daring 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 plumed 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 their proud forms in battle gashed

Are free from anguish now

The neighing steed, the flashing blade,

The trumpet's stirring blast,

The charge, the dreadful cannonade,

The din and shout are past;

No war's wild note, nor glory's peal,

Shall thrill with fierce delight

Those breasts that never more shall feel

The rapture of the fight.

Like the dread northern hurricane

That sweeps his broad plateau,

Flushed with the triumph yet to gain

Came down the serried foe;

Our heroes felt the shock, and leapt

To meet them on the plain;

And long the pitying sky hath wept

Above our gallant slain.

Sons of our consecrated 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.

So '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 hearts and eyes watch by

The heroes' sepulcher.

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!

Dear as the blood you 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 songs shall tell,

When many a vanished age hath flown,

The story how ye fell;

Nor wreck, nor change, or winter's blight

Nor Time's remorseless doom,

Shall dim one ray of holy light

That gilds your glorious tomb.

Kentucky's Theodore O'Hara wrote The Bivouac of the Dead in 1847 in memory of his fellow soldiers who died in the Mexican War. A Danville resident, O'Hara was at various times a teacher and journalist. He served in the Confederate Army during the Civil War. He died in 1867 at age 47.