The Legislature of Kentucky caused the dead of that State who fell at Buena Vista to be brought home and interred at Frankfort, under a splendid monument. Theodore O'Hara, a gifted Irish-Kentuckian soldier and scholar, was selected the orator and poet of the occasion, whence this beautiful eulogy, which has the same application to-day.
HE 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 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 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 never more 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 mother's breath had swept O'er Angostura's plain-
And long the pitying sky has wept Above the moldering 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.
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 kindest 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 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.
The following is pronounced by the Westminster Review to be unquestionably the finest American poem ever written.
On slumberous wings the vulture tried his flight: The dove scarce heard his sighing mate's complaint; And, like a star slow drowning in the light,
The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint.
The sentinel cock upon the hill-side crew- Crew thrice, and all was stiller than before- Silent till some replying wanderer blew
His alien horn, and then was heard no more.
Where erst the jay within the elm's tall crest Made garrulous trouble round the unfledged young: And where the oriole hung her swaying nest By every light wind like a censer swung; Where sang the noisy masons of the eaves, The busy swallows circling ever near, Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes,
An early harvest and a plenteous year;
Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn,
To warn the reapers of the rosy east
All now was songless, empty, and forlorn
Alone, from out the stubble piped the quail,
And croaked the crow through all the dreamy gloom;
Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale, Made echo to the distant cottage loom.
There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers;
The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night; The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers, Sailed slowly by-passed noiseless out of sight.
Amid all this, in this most cheerless air, And where the woodbine sheds upon the porch
Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there Firing the floor with his inverted torch-
Amid all this, the centre of the scene,
The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread, Plied her swift wheel, and with her joyless mien Sat like a Fate, and watched the flying thread.
She had known sorrow. He had walked with her, Oft supped, and broke with her the ashen crust; And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir Of his black mantle trailing in the dust.
While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom, Her country summoned, and she gave her all; And twice War bowed to her his sable plume- Re-gave the swords to rust upon her wall.
Re-gave the swords-but not the hand that drew, And struck for liberty the dying blow; Nor him who, to his sire and country true, Fell, 'mid the ranks of the invading foe.
Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on, Like the low murmur of a hive at noon; Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune.
At last the thread was snapped-her head was bowed, Life dropped the distaff through his hands serene; And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroudWhile Death and Winter closed the autumn scene.
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