  1820=1867. Theodore O’Hara, son of an Irish exile, was born in Danville, Kentucky, and educated at St. Joseph Academy, Bardstown, where he taught Greek to the younger classes while finishing his senior course. He read law, was appointed clerk in the Treasury Department at Washington, 1845, and on the outbreak of the Mexican War entered the army as a soldier, rising to be captain and major. At the close of the war, he returned to Washington and practised law. He was afterwards editor of the “Mobile Register,” and of the Frankfort “Yeoman,” in Kentucky, and was employed in diplomatic missions. He was a colonel in the Confederate Army, and after the war, settled in Georgia. On his death the Kentucky Legislature passed a resolution to remove his remains to Frankfort and lay them beside the soldiers whom he had so well praised in his “Bivouac of the Dead;” and there he rests, the soldier bard, among the voiceless braves of the Battle of Buena Vista. This poem was written for the occasion of their interment; and it has furnished the lines of inscription over the gateways of several military cemeteries. WORKS.Bivouac of the Dead. THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD.(In Memory of the Kentuckians who fell at the Battle of Buena Vista, Jan. 28, 1847.) 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. 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 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 plumÈd 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, 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 rapture of the fight. ......... Full many a norther’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, Or shepherd’s pensive lay, Alone awakes each sullen height That frowned o’er that dread fray. Ye must not slumber there, 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. Thus ’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 heroes’ 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 marble minstrel’s voiceless stone In deathless song shall tell, When many a vanished age hath flown, The story how ye fell; Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter’s blight, Nor Time’s remorseless doom, Shall dim one ray of glory’s light That gilds your deathless tomb. |
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