THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD.

THEODORE O'HARA.

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.

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,
Comes 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!"

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 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 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.

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.

THOMAS GRAY.

THOMAS GRAY was born in London in 1716. His father neglected his family, and the boy was dependent upon his mother, who worked hard to provide her son with an education. Through the influence of an uncle, who was an assistant at 5 Eton, the future poet was educated at that famous school, and at Cambridge. He spent his vacations.

at his uncle's house. He cared nothing for the sports of the times, but loved nature. He would sit for hours in a quiet nook, surrounded by hills and cliffs, reading, dreaming, and watching the gambols of the hares and squirrels.

Gray was twenty-two years old when he left Cambridge. He spent the following six months at home, and then accepted the invitation of one of his college friends to accompany him, free of expense, on a tour through France and Italy. His notes and letters written during this 20 trip show remarkable taste and learning.

After two and a half years of travel he returned to England. His father died during the next fall, after wasting his fortune. Gray began the study of law, but had not the means to finish the course. He began to devote his time to writing, left London, 25 where he had spent the winter, and went with his mother to visit an uncle who lived in a country hamlet called Stoke Poges. In this quiet village he wrote his "Ode on the Spring," "Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College," and began the "Elegy Written in a Country Church-Yard."

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The "Elegy " is one of the most celebrated poems ever written. It was begun when Gray was twenty-six years old, but he did not

finish it until eight years later. Its fame spread over the world, and it still holds its rank as the most perfect of English poems.

The poet lived at Cambridge, where he devoted his time to study. The "Elegy " and a later work, "The Bard," placed him at the head of English poets. He was offered the office of poet 5 laureate, which he refused.

In 1768 Gray accepted the chair of Modern History and Languages at Cambridge.

The last years of the poet's life were spent very quietly. He avoided society and was rarely seen in public. London in 1771.

He died in 10

THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary, way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r

The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r, Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell forever laid,

The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.