With slow tread and still tread
He scans the tented line;
And he counts the battery guns

By the gaunt and shadowy pine;
And his slow tread and still tread

Gives no warning sign.

The dark wave, the plumed wave,
It meets his eager glance;
And it sparkles 'neath the stars,
Like the glimmer of a lance;
A dark wave, a plumed wave,
On an emerald expanse.

A sharp clang, a steel clang,
And terror in the sound!
For the sentry, falcon-eyed,

In the camp a spy hath found;
With a sharp clang, a steel clang,
The patriot is bound.

With calm brow, steady brow,

He listens to his doom;

In his look there is no fear,

Nor a shadow-trace of gloom; But with calm brow and steady brow He robes him for the tomb.

In the long night, the still night,
He kneels upon the sod;
And the brutal guards withhold
E'en the solemn Word of God!
In the long night, the still night,

He walks where Christ hath trod.

'Neath the blue morn, the sunny morn, He dies upon the tree;

And he mourns that he can lose

But one life for Liberty;

And in the blue morn, the sunny morn, His spirit-wings are free.

But his last words, his message-words,
They burn, lest friendly eye
Should read how proud and calm
A patriot could die,

With his last words, his dying words,
A soldier's battle-cry.

From Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf,
From monument and urn,

The sad of earth, the glad of heaven,
His tragic fate shall learn;
And on Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf

The name of HALE shall burn!

HE 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 or screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.

Their shivered 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.

The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle's stirring blast,

The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout, are passed,

Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal,
Shall thrill with fierce delight

Those breasts that nevermore may
The rapture of the fight.

feel

Like the fierce Northern hurricane
That sweeps his great plateau,
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,
Comes down the serried foe.
Who heard the thunder of the fray

Break o'er the field beneath,
Knew well the watchword of that day

Was victory or death.

Full many a mother's breath has swept O'er Angostura's plain,

And long the pitying sky has wept

Above its mouldered slain.

The raven's scream or eagle's flight,
Or shepherd's pensive lay,