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; We are not many · we who pressed But who of us has not confessed 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, 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, Their shivered swords are red with rust, And plenteous funeral tears have washed 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 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 Knew well the watchword of that day Was" Victory or death." Long had the doubtful conflict raged For never fiercer fight had waged Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, '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, Alone awakes each sullen height That frowned o'er that dread fray. Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, 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. |