Thursday, May 16, 2013


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 swells upon the wind;
No troubled thought at midnight haunt~
   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 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.
The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
   The bugle's stirring blast,

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