As they gallop right on o'er the plashy red sod-
Right into the cloud all spectral and dim,
Right up to the guns black-throated and grim
Right down on the hedges bordered with steel,
Right through the dense columns, then "Right about wheel!"*
Hurra! A new swath through the harvest again!
Hurra for the flag! To the battle, Amen,
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 answer 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 pluméd heads are bowed;
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,
Is now their martial shroud.
The neighing steed, the flashing blade,
The trumpet's stirring blast,
The charge, the dreadful cannonade
The din and shout, are past.
Like the dread northern hurricane
That sweeps the 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 sleepless 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' sepulchre.
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 tone
In deathless songs shall tell,
When many a vanquished 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 holy light
That gilds your glorious tomb.
BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeams' misty light
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow.
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid`him.
But half of our heavy task was done
When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stoneBut we left him alone with his glory.
THE BRAVE AT HOME.
The maid who binds her warrior's sash,
With smile that well her pain dissembles,
The while beneath her drooping lash
One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles,—
Though heaven alone records the tear,
And fame shall never know her story,
Her heart has shed a drop as dear
As e'er bedewed the field of glory.
The wife who girds her husband's sword,
'Mid little ones who weep or wonder,
And bravely speaks the cheering word,-
What though her heart be rent asunder,
Doomed nightly, in her dreams, to hear
The bolts of death around him rattle,
Hath shed as sacred blood as e'er
Was poured upon the field of battle.
The mother who conceals her grief,
While to her breast her son she presses, Then breathes a few brave words and brief, Kissing the patriot brow she presses; With no one but her secret God
To know the pain that weighs upon her, Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod
Received on Freedom's field of honor.
DIRGE FOR THE SOLDIER.
Close his eyes; his work is done.
What to him is friend or foeman,
Rise of moon, or set of sun,
Hand of man, or kiss of woman?
Lay him low; lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? He cannot know.
Lay him low!
As man may, he fought his fight,
Proved his truth by his endeavor;
Let him sleep in solemn right,—
Sleep forever and forever.
Lay him low; lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? He cannot know.
Lay him low!
Fold him in his country's stars,
Roll the drum, and fire the volley;
What to him are all our wars,-
What but death-bemocking folly ?
Lay him low; lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? He cannot know;
Lay him low!
Leave him to God's watching eye,
Trust him to the hand that made him:
Mortal love sweeps idly by ;
God alone has power to aid him.
Lay him low; lay him low,
In the clover or the snow! What cares he? He cannot know. Lay him low!
The apples are ripe in the orchard,
The work of the reaper is done,
And the golden woodlands redden
In the blood of the dying sun.
At the cottage door the grandsire
Sits, pale, in his easy-chair,
While a gentle wind of twilight
Plays with his silver hair.
A woman is kneeling beside him;
A fair young head is prest,
In the first wild passion of sorrow,
Against his aged breast.
And far from over the distance
The faltering echoes come,
Of the flying blast of trumpet
And the rattling roll of drum.
Then the grandsire spake in a whisper, "The end no man can see;
But we give him to his country,
And we give our prayers to Thee."
The violet stars the meadows,
The rose-buds fringe the door,
And over the grassy orchard
The pink-white blossoms pour;
But the grandsire's chair is empty,
The cottage is dark and still;
There's a nameless grave on the battle-field,
And a new one under the hill.
And a pallid, tearless woman
By the cold hearth sits, alone,
And the old clock in the corner
Ticks on with a steady drone.
THE CHURCH MILITANT.
The Son of God goes forth to war, a kingly crown to gain;
His blood-red banner streams afar: Who follows in His train?
Who best can drink his cup of woe, triumphant over pain;
Who patient bears his cross below, he follows in His train.
The martyr first, whose eagle eye could pierce beyond the grave,
Who saw his Master in the sky, and called on Him to save:
Like Him, with pardon on his tongue, in midst of mortal pain,
He prayed for them that did the wrong: Who follows in His train?
A glorious band, the chosen few, on whom the Spirit came :
Twelve valiant saints, their hope they knew, and mocked the
cross and flame:
They met the tyrant's brandished steel, the lion's gory mane;
They bowed their necks the death to feel: Who follows in their
A noble army, men and boys, the matron and the maid, [train?
Around the Saviour's throne rejoice, in robes of light arrayed:
They climbed the steep ascent of heav'n thro' peril toil and pain:
O God! to us may grace be given to follow in their train!
THE SCOURGE OF WAR.
Hark! the cry of Death is ringing
Wildly from the reeking plain;
Guilty glory, too, is flinging
Proudly forth her vaunting strain;
Thousands on the field are lying,
Slaughtered in the ruthless strife;
Wildly mingled, dead and dying
Show the waste of human life.
Christian, can you idly slumber,
While this work of death goes on?
Can you idly sit and number
Fellow beings, one by one,
On the field of battle falling,
Sinking to a bloody grave?
Up! the God of Peace is calling,—
Sternly calling you to save!
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