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 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.

'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 fathers' gore

His first-born laurels grew,

And well he deemed the sons would pour

Their lives for glory too.

Full many a norther'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' 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.

MEMORIALS

On the Slain at Chickamauga

BY HERMAN MELVILLE

Happy are they and charmed in life

Who through long wars arrive unscarred
At peace. To such the wreath be given,
If they unfalteringly have striven—
In honor, as in limb, unmarred.
Let cheerful praise be rife,

And let them live their years at ease,
Musing on brothers who victorious died-
Loved mates whose memory shall ever please.

And yet mischance is honorable too-
Seeming defeat in conflict justified,

Whose end to closing eyes is hid from view
The will, that never can relent-

Long as the stars do gleam upon it
Shall memory come to dream upon it.

ELEGIAC

BY JAMES GATES PERCIVAL

O, it is great for our country to die, where ranks are contending!

Bright is the wreath of our fame; glory awaits us for

aye,

Glory, that never is dim, shining on with light never

ending,

Glory that never shall fade, never, O never, away!

O, it is sweet for our country to die! How softly

reposes

Warrior youth on his bier, wet by the tears of his love,

Wet by a mother's warm tears. They crown him with garlands of roses,

Weep, and then joyously turn, bright where he triumphs above.

Not to the shades shall the youth descend, who for country hath perished;

Hebe awaits him in heaven, welcomes him there with her smile;

There, at the banquet divine, the patriot spirit is cherished;

Gods love the young who ascend pure from the funeral pile.

Not to Elysian fields, by the still, oblivious river;

Not to the isles of the blest, over the blue, rolling

sea;

But on Olympian heights shall dwell the devoted for

ever;

There shall assemble the good, there the wise, valiant, and free.

O, then, how great for our country to die, in the front rank to perish,

Firm with our breast to the foe, victory's shout in

our ear!