The Tri Weekly Standard

Poetry.

[The following poem was written by Captain O'Hara, of Kentucky, on the occasion of the removal to the Cemetary at Frankfort of the remains of Kentucky soldiers, who fell and slept on the field of Buena Vista.]

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

No rumor of the foe's advance
Now sweeps 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;
Nor braying horn, nor screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms;

Their shivered 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 freed 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 raptures of the fight.

For like the dreadful hurricane
That sweeps the wild plateau,
Flushed with the triumph set to gain
Came down the serried foe;
Who heard the tempest 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
Across the surging plain,
For ne'er such fight before had waged
The sons of fiery 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.

'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 fathers' gore
His firstborn laurels grew,
And well he deemed the sons would pour
Their lives for glory too!

Full many a Northern breath had swept
O'er Angostura's plain,
And long the pitying sky hath wept
Above her mouldering slain:
The raven's scream, or eagle's flight,
Or shepherd's pensive lay,
Alone awakes each sullen height
That frowned on that dread fray.

Sons of the "dark and bloody ground,"
Ye should not slumber there,
Where stranger steps and tongues resound
Along the heedless air.
Your own proud land's heroic soil
Must be your fitter grave;
She claims from war his richest spoil-
The ashes of the brave.

Now 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 soldier's sepulchre.

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,
Or Honor points the hallowed spot
Where Valor proudly sleeps.

Yon faithful herald's blazoned stone
With mournful pride shall tell,
When many a vanished age hath flown,
The story how ye fell;
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's flight,
Nor time's remorseless doom,
Shall mar one ray of glory's light
That gilds your deathless tomb.