BIBLIOGRAPHY. George W. Ranck's little books: _O'Hara and His Elegies_ (Baltimore, 1875); _The Bivouac of the Dead and Its Author_ (1898; 1909); Daniel E. O'Sullivan's paper in _The Southern Bivouac_ (Louisville, January, 1887); Robert Burns Wilson's fine tribute in _The Century Magazine_ (May, 1890). The late Mrs. Susan B. Dixon, the Henderson historian, left a MS. life of O'Hara that is to be issued shortly.
[From _O'Hara and His Elegies_, by George W. Ranck (Baltimore, 1875)]
The muffled drum's sad roll has beat The soldier's last tattoo; No more on life's parade shall meet The brave and daring few. On Fame's eternal camping-ground Their silent tents are spread, And Glory guards with solemn round The bivouac of the dead.
No answer 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 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 their proud forms, in battle gashed, Are free from anguish now.
The neighing steed, the flashing blade, The trumpet's stirring blast; The charge, the dreadful cannonade, The din and shout, are past; No war's wild note, nor glory's peal, Shall thrill with fierce delight Those breasts that nevermore shall feel The rapture of the fight.
Like the dread northern hurricane That sweeps his broad plateau, Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, Came down the serried foe.[9] Our heroes felt the shock, and leapt To meet them on the plain; And long the pitying sky hath wept Above our gallant slain.
Sons of our consecrated ground Ye must not slumber there, Where stranger steps and tongues resound Along the headless 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.
So '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 hearts and eyes watch by The heroes' sepulchre.
