Tuesday, December 15, 2015

A Christmas Tribute - Bivouac Of The Dead

Stones River

Theodore O'Hara

  The poem Bivouac Of Dead was written by Kentucky native Theodore O'Hara a lawyer, soldier and journalist. He was an officer in the Mexican War and it is believed that he wrote the poem in 1847 as a tribute to Kentucky Volunteers who died at the battle of Buena Vista, O'Hara served as a Confederate colonel and aide to former Vice President John C. Breckinridge in the Civil War and fought bravely at Shiloh and Stones River. Many people mistakenly believe that he wrote it as a tribute to the dead of Stones River. The poem is written on many Confederate monuments but I have seen it on plaques in just about every National cemetery I have ever visited including Arlington. Because O'Hara was a Confederate soldier no credit is given to him by the National Park Service. I noticed wreaths on the graves at Stones River this afternoon and I stopped just before sunset and took some pictures.

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.

Stones River
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.
Stones River
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.
Stones River
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!"
Laying The Wreaths At Arlington
Long had the doubtful conflict raged 
O'er all that stricken 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 old Chieftain 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 flag to save. 
By rivers of their father's gore 
His first-born laurels grew, 
And well he deemed the sons would pour 
Their lives for glory too.

For many a mother's breath has swept 
O'er Angostura's plain -- 
And long the pitying sky has wept 
Above its 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 dread 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 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 heroes sepulcher
The Punch Bowl National Cemetery Honolulu
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, 
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 story how ye fell;
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,
Nor Time's remorseless doom,
Shall dim one ray of glory's light
That gilds your deathless tomb.


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