Bivouac of the Dead
Their silvered swords are red with rust,
Their pluméd 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.
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 gloom,
Shall dim one ray of glory’s light
That gilds your deathless tomb.