Sadly, but not with upbraiding,

The generous deed was done.
In the storms of the years that are fading
No braver battle was won:-
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the Judgment Day:-
Under the blossoms, the Blue;
Under the garlands, the Gray.

No more shall the war-cry sever,
Or the winding rivers be red:
They banish our anger forever

When they laurel the graves of our dead!

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the Judgment Day:

Love and tears for the Blue;

Tears and love for the Gray.

Francis Miles Finch [1827-1907]

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,

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' sepulchre.

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 [1820-1867]

ROLL-CALL

"CORPORAL GREEN!" the Orderly cried;
"Here!" was the answer loud and clear,
From the lips of a soldier standing near,-
And "Here!" was the word the next replied.

"Cyrus Drew!"-then a silence fell;
This time no answer followed the call;
Only his rear-man had seen him fall:
Killed or wounded-he could not tell.

There they stood in the failing light,

These men of battle, with grave, dark looks,
As plain to be read as open books,

While slowly gathered the shades of night.

The fern on the hill-sides was splashed with blood,
And down in the corn, where the poppies grew,
Were redder stains than the poppies knew,
And crimson-dyed was the river's flood.

For the foe had crossed from the other side,
That day, in the face of a murderous fire
That swept them down in its terrible ire;
And their life-blood went to color the tide.

"Herbert Cline!"-At the call there came
Two stalwart soldiers into the line,
Bearing between them this Herbert Cline,
Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name.

"Ezra Kerr!"-and a voice answered "Here!"
"Hiram Kerr!"-but no man replied.

They were brothers, these two; the sad wind
sighed,

And a shudder crept through the cornfield near.

"Ephraim Deane!"-then a soldier spoke:

"Deane carried our regiment's colors," he said,
"When our ensign was shot; I left him dead
Just after the enemy wavered and broke.
"Close to the roadside his body lies;

I paused a moment and gave him to drink;
He murmured his mother's name, I think,
And Death came with it and closed his eyes."
'Twas a victory,—yes; but it cost us dear:

For that company's roll, when called at night,
Of a hundred men who went into the fight,
Numbered but twenty that answered "Here!"

Nathaniel Graham Shepherd [1835-1869]

DIRGE

FOR ONE WHO FELL IN BATTLE

ROOM for a Soldier! lay him in the clover;

He loved the fields, and they shall be his cover;

Make his mound with hers who called him once her lover:

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.

Bear him to no dismal tomb under city churches;

Take him to the fragrant fields, by the silver birches,

Where the whippoorwill shall mourn, where the oriole

Where the lamb hath lain upon it,

And the rain will rain upon it.