The foe himself recoiled aghast,

When, striking where he strongest lay, We swooped his flanking batteries past, And, braving full their murderous blast, Stormed home the towers of Monterey.

Our banners on those turrets wave,

And there our evening bugles play;
Where orange-boughs above their grave
Keep green the memory of the brave
Who fought and fell at Monterey.

We are not many · we who pressed
Beside the brave who fell that day;

But who of us has not confessed
He'd rather share their warrior rest
Than not have been at Monterey?

CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN.

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD.

Feb. 22, 23, 1847.

This poem was written to commemorate the bringing home of the bodies of the Kentucky soldiers who fell at Buena Vista, and their burial at Frankfort at the cost of the State.

HE muffled drum's sad roll has beat

THE

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 are spread,

And glory guards, with solemn round,
The bivouac of the dead.

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,
Their plumèd 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 never more may feel

The rapture of the fight.

Like the fierce northern hurricane

That sweeps his great plateau, Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, Came down the serried foe.

Who heard the thunder of the fray
Break o'er the field beneath,

Knew well the watchword of that day

Was" Victory or death."

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 gory tide;

Not long, our stout old chieftain knew,
Such odds his strength could bide.

'T was 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.

Full many a norther's breath has swept

O'er Angostura's plain

And long the pitying sky has wept

Above the mouldering 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.