Bivouac of the Dead

No rumor of the foe’s advance 

Now swells upon the wind; 


Nor troubled thought at midnight haunts 


Of loved ones left behind; 


No vision of the morrow’s strife 


The warrior’s dreams alarms; 


No braying horn or screaming fife 


At dawn shall call to arms.

Their shriveled 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 the great plateau, 


Flushed with triumph, yet to gain, 

Come down the serried foe, 


Who heard the thunder of the fray 

Break o’er the field beneath, 

Knew the watchword of the 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 glory tide; 


Not long, our stout old Chieftain knew, 


Such odds his strength could bide.

Twas in that hour his stern command 


Called to a martyr’s grave 


The flower of his beloved land, 

The nation’s flag to save. 


By rivers of their father’s gore 

His first-born laurels grew, 


And well he deemed the sons would pour 


Their lives for glory too.

For many a mother’s breath has swept 


O’er Angostura’s plain — 


And long the pitying sky has wept 

Above its moldered 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.

Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground 


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 sepulcher.

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, 


For honor points the hallowed spot 


Where valor proudly sleeps.

Yon marble minstrel’s voiceless stone 

In deathless song shall tell, 


When many a vanquished ago has flown, 


The story how ye fell; 


Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter’s blight, 


Nor time’s remorseless doom, 


Can dim one ray of glory’s light 


That gilds your deathless tomb.

Editor’s note: This poem, written in 1847 by Theodore O’Hara, is “in memory of the Kentucky troops killed in the Mexican War,” as a website devoted to Arlington National Cemetery notes. “Portions of this haunting poem are inscribed on placards throughout Arlington, as well as on the McClellan gate there.”