Ho! HARDIN breasts it bravely! and heroic BISSELL there Stands firm before the storm of balls that fill the astonished air: The Lancers dash upon them too! The foe swarm ten to one: HARDIN is slain; MCKEE and CLAY the last time see the sun: And many another gallant heart, in that last desperate fray, Grew cold, its last thought turning to its loved ones far away. Speed, speed, Artillery! to the front!--for the hurricane of fire Crushes those noble regiments, reluctant to retire! Speed swiftly! Gallop! Ah! they come! Again BRAGG climbs the ridge, And his grape sweeps down the swarming foe, as a strong man moweth sedge: Thus baffled in their last attack, compelled perforce to yield, Still menacing in firm array, their columns leave the field. The guns still roared at intervals; but silence fell at last, And on the dead and dying came the evening shadows fast. And then above the mountains rose the cold moon's silver shield, And patiently and pitying she looked upon the field. While careless of his wounded, and neglectful of his dead, Despairingly and sullenly by night SANTANA fled. And thus on BUENA VISTA'S heights a long day's work was done, And thus our brave old General another battle won. Still, still our glorious banner waves, unstained by flight or shame, And the Mexicans among their hills still tremble at our name. SO, HONOR UNTO THOSE THAT STOOD! DISGRACE TO THOSE THAT FLED! AND EVERLASTING GLORY UNTO BUENA VISTA'S DEAD! February 28, 1847. [Illustration] THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. BY THEODORE O'HARA. [Originally written on the occasion of the erection of a monument to the Kentucky volunteers who fell at Buena Vista.--EDITOR.] 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 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.