HE muffled drum's sad roll has beat No more on life's parade shall meet On Fame's eternal camping-ground And glory guards, with solemn round, The bivouac of the dead. No rumor of the foe's advance No troubled thought at midnight haunts No vision of the morrow's strife The warrior's dream alarms, Their shivered swords are red with rust, Their pluméd heads are bowed, Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, The neighing troop, the flashing blade, The charge, the dreadful cannonade, Like the fierce Northern hurricane Who heard the thunder of the fray Knew well the watchword of that day Was victory or death. Full many a mother's breath has swept O'er Angostura's plain, And long the pitying sky has wept Above its mouldered slain. The raven's scream or eagle's flight, Alone now wake each solemn height 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 its richest spoil, The ashes of her brave. Thus, 'neath their parent turf they rest, Borne to a Spartan mother's breast 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! While Fame her record keeps, Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone In deathless song shall tell, When a vanished many year hath flown, The story how ye fell; Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, Nor Time's remorseless doom, Can dim one ray of holy light That gilds your glorious tomb. HOME, WOUNDED. BY SYDNEY DOBELL. HEEL me into the sunshine, Wheel me into the shadow; There must be leaves on the woodbine, Is the king-cup crowned in the meadow ? Wheel me down to the meadow, Down to the little river; In sun or in shadow I shall not dazzle or shiver, Stay wherever you will, By the mount or under the hill, Give me only a bud from the trees, |