-Theodore O' Hara-
The soldier's last tattoo;
No more on Life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few
On fames's eternal camping ground
Their silent tents to spread,
And glory gaurds, with solemn round
The bivouac of the dead.
No rumor of the foe's advance
Now swells upon the wint;
Nor troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ons left behind;
Nor vision of the morrow's strife
The warrior's dream alarms;
No braying horn or screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms
Their shriveled swords are red with rust
Their plumed heads are bowed,
Their haughty banners trailed in dust
Is now their martial shrowd.
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 dine 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 flight.
Like the fierce Northern hurrican
That sweeps the great plateau
Flushed with triumph, yet to gain,
Come down the serried foe,
Who heard the thunder of the fray
Break o'er the field beneath
knew the watchword of the day
Was "Victory or Death."
Long hand the doubtful confligt raged
O'er all that striken plain,
For never fiercer fight had waged
The vengeful blood of Spain;
And still the storm of battle blew,
Still swelled the glory tide;
Not long our stout chieftan 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 flad to save
By rivers of their father's gone
His first-born laurels grew,
And well he deamed the sons would pour
Their lives for glory too.
For many a mother's breath has swept
O'er Angosta's plain--
And long the pitying sky has wept
Above it's moldered slain.
The raven's scream, or eagle's flight,
Or shepherd's pensive lay,
Alone awakes each sullen height
That frowned o'er that dreaded fray.
Sons of the Dark and Blood 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 hero's 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 records keep
For honor points the hallowed spot
Where valor proudly sleeps.
Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone
In deathless song shall tell,
When many a vanquished ago has flown
The sotry how ye fell;
Nor wreck nor change, no winter's blight
Nor time's remorseless doom,
Can dim one ray of glory's light
That guilds your deathless tomb.