The muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The 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 nor screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead,
Dear as the blood you gave:
No impious footsteps here shall tread
The herbage of your grave:
Nor shall your glory be forgot
While fame her record keeps
Or honor points the hallowed spot
Where valor proudly sleeps.

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