The muffled drum’s sad roll has beat
\nThe soldier’s last tattoo;
\nNo more on life’s parade shall meet
\nThat brave and fallen few.
\nOn Fame’s eternal camping-ground
\nTheir silent tents are spread,
\nAnd Glory guards, with solemn round,
\nThe bivouac of the dead.<\/p>\n
No rumor of the foe’s advance
\nNow swells upon the wind;
\nNor troubled thought at midnight haunts
\nOf loved ones left behind;
\nNo vision of the morrow’s strife
\nThe warrior’s dream alarms;
\nNo braying horn nor screaming fife
\nAt dawn shall call to arms.<\/p>\n
Their shriveled swords are red with rust,
\nTheir plumed heads are bowed,
\nTheir haughty banner, trailed in dust,
\nIs now their martial shroud.
\nAnd plenteous funeral tears have washed
\nThe red stains from each brow,
\nAnd the proud forms, by battle gashed
\nAre free from anguish now.<\/p>\n