THEODORE O'HARA.

HE 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 never more 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 mother's breath had swept
O'er Angostura's plain-

And long the pitying sky has wept
Above the moldering 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.

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 kindest 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.

The sentinel cock upon the hill-side crew-
Crew thrice, and all was stiller than before-
Silent till some replying wanderer blew

His alien horn, and then was heard no more.

Where erst the jay within the elm's tall crest
Made garrulous trouble round the unfledged young:
And where the oriole hung her swaying nest
By every light wind like a censer swung ;
Where sang the noisy masons of the eaves,
The busy swallows circling ever near,
Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes,

An early harvest and a plenteous year;

Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn,

To warn the reapers of the rosy east

All now was songless, empty, and forlorn

Alone, from out the stubble piped the quail,

And croaked the crow through all the dreamy gloom;

Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale,

Made echo to the distant cottage loom.

There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers;

The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night; The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers, Sailed slowly by-passed noiseless out of sight.

Amid all this, in this most cheerless air,

And where the woodbine sheds upon the porch Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there Firing the floor with his inverted torch

Amid all this, the centre of the scene,

The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread,
Plied her swift wheel, and with her joyless mien
Sat like a Fate, and watched the flying thread.

She had known sorrow. He had walked with her,
Oft supped, and broke with her the ashen crust;
And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir
Of his black mantle trailing in the dust.

While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom,
Her country summoned, and she gave her all;
And twice War bowed to her his sable plume-
Re-gave the swords to rust upon her wall.
Re-gave the swords-but not the hand that drew,
And struck for liberty the dying blow;
Nor him who, to his sire and country true,
Fell, 'mid the ranks of the invading foe.

Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on,
Like the low murmur of a hive at noon;
Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone
Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune.

At last the thread was snapped-her head was bowed, Life dropped the distaff through his hands serene; And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroudWhile Death and Winter closed the autumn scene.