A CHRISTMAS TRIBUTE

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.

Arlington

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.

Arlington

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.

Arlington

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.

Arlington

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.

Arlington

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.

Arlington

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone

In deathless song 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 glory's light