Sadly, but not with upbraiding, The generous deed was done. No more shall the war-cry sever, They banish our anger forever When they laurel the graves of our dead! Waiting the Judgment Day:— Love and tears for the Blue; Tears and love for the Gray. Francis Miles Finch [1827-1907] THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD THE muffled drum's sad roll has beat No more on Life's parade shall meet And Glory guards, with solemn round, No rumor 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 nor screaming fife At dawn shall call to arms. Their shivered swords are red with rust; And plenteous funeral tears have washed And the proud forms, by battle gashed, The neighing troop, the flashing blade, The charge, the dreadful cannonade, Like the fierce northern hurricane That sweeps his great plateau, Who heard the thunder of the fray Knew well the watchword of that day Was "Victory or Death." Long had the doubtful conflict raged Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, 'Twas in that hour his stern command The nation's flag to save. By rivers of their fathers' gore His first-born laurels grew, And well he deemed the sons would pour Their lives for glory too. Full many a norther's breath has swept And long the pitying sky has wept That frowned o'er that dread fray. Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, Where stranger steps and tongues resound 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' sepulchre. Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead! Or Honor points the hallowed spot Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone In deathless song shall tell, When many a vanished age hath flown, 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. Theodore O'Hara [1820-1867] ROLL-CALL "CORPORAL GREEN!" the Orderly cried; "Cyrus Drew!"-then a silence fell; This time no answer followed the call; Only his rear-man had seen him fall: Killed or wounded-he could not tell. There they stood in the failing light, These men of battle, with grave, dark looks, While slowly gathered the shades of night. The fern on the hill-sides was splashed with blood, For the foe had crossed from the other side, "Herbert Cline!"-At the call there came "Ezra Kerr!"-and a voice answered "Here!" They were brothers, these two; the sad wind And a shudder crept through the cornfield near. "Ephraim Deane!"-then a soldier spoke: "Deane carried our regiment's colors," he said, I paused a moment and gave him to drink; For that company's roll, when called at night, Nathaniel Graham Shepherd [1835-1869] DIRGE FOR ONE WHO FELL IN BATTLE ROOM for a Soldier! lay him in the clover; Make his mound with hers who called him once her lover: Where the rain may rain upon it, Where the sun may shine upon it, Bear him to no dismal tomb under city churches; Take him to the fragrant fields, by the silver birches, Where the whippoorwill shall mourn, where the oriole Where the lamb hath lain upon it, And the rain will rain upon it. |