Bivouac of the Dead

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
That brave and fallen few.
On fame's eternal camping ground
Their silent tents to spread,
And glory guards, with solemn round
The bivouac of The dead


No rumor of the foe's advance
Now swells upon the wind; 

Nor troubled thought at midnight haunts 

Of loved ones left behind; 

No vision of the morrow's strife 

The warrior's dreams 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 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 nevermore may feel 

The rapture of the fight.

Like the fierce Northern hurricane
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!"