II.

  Thou art the rock of empire set mid-seas
    Between the East and West, that God has built;
    Advance thy Roman borders where thou wilt,
  While run thy armies true with his decrees;
  Law, justice, liberty,—­great gifts are these. 
    Watch that they spread where English blood is spilt,
    Lest, mixed and sullied with his country’s guilt
  The soldier’s life-stream flow, and Heaven displease!

  Two swords there are:  one naked, apt to smite,
    Thy blade of war; and, battle-storied, one
  Rejoices in the sheath, and hides from light. 
    American I am; would wars were done! 
  Now westward, look, my country bids good night,—­
    Peace to the world, from ports without a gun!

GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY.

* * * * *

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD.

[Dedication of a monument to Kentucky volunteers, killed at Buena Vista, Mexico.]

  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 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 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 nevermore may feel
    The rapture of the fight.

  Like the fierce northern hurricane
    That sweeps his great plateau,
  Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,
    Came down the serried foe. 
  Who heard the thunder 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
    O’er all that stricken plain,
  For never fiercer fight had waged
    The vengeful blood of 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.