Tuesday, June 7, 2011

The Bivouac of the Dead

There are a number of famous people buried in the Frankfort Cemetery. Daniel and Rebecca Boone are there. Vice President Richard M. Johnson is too. Simon B. Buckner and John J. Crittenden are just two of the many Kentucky governors who are there. Although only famous because of his father, Henry Clay, Jr's final resting place is there as well.

Frankfort Cemetery too, is the location of Theodore O'Hara's gave. Who? Theodore O'Hara. You know the guy that wrote the poem "The Bivouac of the Dead;" the poem which graces almost every military cemetery in America. Many people think that particular poem is from the Civil War, but it is actually from the Mexican American War. O'Hara wrote it to commemorate a monument in the Frankfort cemetery to his fellow Mexican American War veterans from the commonwealth.

O'Hara was born in Danville, Kentucky in 1820, but as a youngster his family moved to Frankfort. He was educated at Centre College and St. Joseph's Academy. He briefly studied law but worked in Washington D.C. at the Treasury department before the outbreak of the Mexican American War.

Apparently O'Hara was a firm believer in America's "manifest destiny," as during the war he held officer positions, and in 1850, joined in an expedition to remove Spanish rule from Cuba, where he was wounded in the leg. After his military adventures O'Hara went to writing, as the editor for newspapers in Louisville, Frankfort, and Mobile, Alabama.

Martial spirit must have been in O'Hara's blood, because when the Civil War broke out he joined the Confederate cause and became the lieutenant colonel of the 12th Alabama infantry regiment. He participated in epic Western Theater battles such as Shiloh and Murfreesboro.

After the war O'Hara tried the cotton business but a fire ruined that prospect. His short life ended in 1867, at at age 47, when he died of fever (probably malaria) at Guerrytown, Alabama. He was first buried in Columbus, Georgia, but his remains were eventually reinterred in Frankfort in the 1870s.

The Bivouac of the Dead

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 to spread,
And glory guards, with solemn round
The 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.

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