THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD.

And Robert complains of his lowly lot,

217

And Emily gossips with Kate — Ah, well,
You may all be shadow, but I am not,

While I listen here for the Prompter's bell.

EDGAR FAWCETT.

VOL. III.

The Bivouac of the Dead.

THE

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 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.

ΙΟ

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 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.

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 solemn height

That frowned o'er that dark 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.

WEEP NOT FOR HIM THAT DIETH. 219

The sunshine of their native sky
Smiles sadly on them here,

And kindred eyes and hearts watch by
The hero's 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 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.

THEODORE O'HARA.

Weep not for him that dieth.

EEP not for him that dieth

WEEP

For he sleeps, and is at rest;

And the couch whereon he lieth
Is the green earth's quiet breast:
But weep for him who pineth
On a far land's hateful shore,

Who wearily declineth

Where ye see his face no more!

Weep not for him that dieth,

For friends are round his bed,

And many a young lip sigheth

When they name the early dead: But weep for him that liveth

Where none will know or care, When the groan his faint heart giveth Is the last sigh of despair.

Weep not for him that dieth,

For his struggling soul is free, And the world from which it flieth Is a world of misery ;

But weep for him that weareth

The captive's galling chain:

To the agony he beareth,

Death were but little pain.

Weep not for him that dieth,

For he hath ceased from tears,

And a voice to his replieth

Which he hath not heard for years;

But weep for him who weepeth

On that cold land's cruel shore —

Blest, blest is he that sleepeth,

Weep for the dead no more.

CAROLINE NORTON.

Epitaph.

UNDERNEATH this sable hearse

Lies the subject of all verse,

Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother.
Death! ere thou hast killed another

Fair, and learned, and good as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee.

BEN JONSON.

DE PROFUNDIS.

ΤΗ

De Profundis.

HE face which, duly as the sun, Rose up for me with life begun, To mark all bright hours of the day With daily love, is dimmed away – And yet my days go on, go on.

The tongue which, like a stream, could run
Smooth music from the roughest stone,
And every morning with "Good-day
Made each day good, is hushed away -
And yet my days go on, go on.

The heart which, like a staff, was one
For mine to lean and rest upon;
The strongest on the longest day
With steadfast love, is caught away –
And yet my days go on, go on.

And cold before my summer's done,
And deaf in Nature's general tune,
And fallen too low for special fear,
And here, with hope no longer here
While the tears drop, my days go on.

The world goes whispering to its own,
"This anguish pierces to the bone.”
And tender friends go sighing round,
"What love can ever cure this wound?"
My days go on, my days go on.

The past rolls forward on the sun

And makes all night. O dreams begun,

Not to be ended! Ended bliss!

And life, that will not end in this!

My days go on, my days go on.

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