May 30th, 2011: Theodore O'Hara

Posted on: 05/30/2011
If on this Memorial Day you decided to visit a national cemetery, you may have noticed a poem written on metal tablets lining walkways.  It is the poem Bivouac of the Dead by Theodore O'Hara.  O'Hara fought in the Mexican War and wrote the poem to honor fellow soldiers who had been killed, but 150 years ago today was in the Confederate army.

O'Hara was a native Kentuckian born in 1820 and was very well educated growing up.  He became a lawyer in 1842, but ended up working in the US Treasury Department by the eve of the Mexican War.  He was an officer in a Kentucky regiment, and served as a quartermaster through much of the war.  He ended the Mexican War as a brevet major, and fought in the Battles of Contreras and Churubusco.  Bivouac of the Dead was first published in a newspaper O'Hara worked for in 1850. 

During the Civil War O'Hara was an officer in the 12th Alabama Infantry in 1861, and then served in administrative positions for most of the war.  His poem was chosen to appear in Arlington National Cemetery by Montgomery Meigs, the main force behind the establishment of that cemetery.

Here is O'Hara's poem in its entirety:  
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.

For more information, question or comments about "The Great Task Before Us" email us at greattask@gettysburgfoundation.org

If you have a soldier or civilian that you would like to submit, click here!

Friends of Gettysburg

Friends of Gettysburg
1195 Baltimore Pike
Gettysburg, PA 17325

Mailing Address
Friends of Gettysburg
P.O. Box 4629
Gettysburg, PA 17325

Phone Number: (717) 338-1243
Email Address: membership@gettysburgfoundation.org

The Great Task Before Us Archive

The Gettysburg Foundation

1195 Baltimore Pike
Gettysburg, PA 17325

Phone: 717.338.1243
Fax: 717.338.1244