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All that is necessary for the triumph of Evil is that Good men do nothing.

Edmund Burke
Irish orator, philosopher, & politician (1729 - 1797)

 

 

 

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD

by: Theodore O'Hara (1820-1867)

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 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.

 

Their shivered swords are red with rust;

Their plumèd 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 his great plateau,

Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,

Came 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."

 

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.

 

'T was in that hour his stern command

Called to a martyr's grave

The flower of his belovèd land,

The nation's flag to save.

By rivers of their fathers' gore

His first-born laurels grew,

And well he deemed the sons would pour

Their lives for glory too.

 

Full many a norther'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,

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 glory 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 story be forgot,

While Fame her record keeps,

Or Honor points the hallowed spot

Where Valor proudly sleeps.

 

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 doom,

Shall dim one ray of glory's light

That gilds your deathless tomb.

                                      by Theodore O'Hara, 1847

 

 

"In Flanders Fields"

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.


We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
      In Flanders fields.


Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
      In Flanders fields.

Poet's Answer Reply to: "In Flanders Fields"

"We shall keep the faith"

Oh! You who sleep in Flanders' Fields
Sleep sweet - to rise anew;
We caught the torch you threw,
And holding high we kept
The faith with those who died.


We cherish, too, the Poppy red
That grows on fields where valor led.
It seems to signal to the skies
That blood of heroes never dies.
But lends a lustre to the red
On the flower that blooms above the dead
      In Flanders' fields.

And now the torch and Poppy red
Wear in honour of our dead.
Fear not that ye have died for naught:
We've learned the lesson that ye taught
      In Flanders' fields.

                                    Moina Michael

 

 

"America's Answer"

Rest ye in peace, ye Flanders dead
The fight that you so bravely led
We've taken up. And we will keep
True faith with you who lie asleep,
With each a cross to mark his bed,
And poppies blowing overhead,
When once his own life-blood ran red
So let your rest be sweet and deep
      In Flanders Fields.


Fear not that ye have died for naught;
The torch ye threw to us we caught,
Ten million hands will hold it high,
And freedom's light shall never die!
We've learned the lesson that ye taught
      In Flanders' fields.

                                                R.W. Lillard

 

"In Flanders Fields"

(An Answer)

In Flanders Field the cannon boom,
And fitful flashes light the gloom,
While up above; like eagles, fly
The fierce destroyers in the sky;
With stains, the earth wherein you lie,
Is redder than the poppy bloom,
      In Flanders Field.

Sleep on, ye brave, the shrieking shell,
The quaking trench, the startled yell,
The fury of the battle hell,
Shall wake you not, for all is well.
Sleep peacefully, for all is well.
Your flaming torch aloft we bear,
With burning heart, an oath we swear
To keep the faith, to fight it through,
To crush the foe, or sleep with you,
      In Flanders Field.

                                C.B. Galbreath

 

"In Flanders Now"

We have kept faith, ye Flanders' dead,
Sleep well beneath those poppies red,
That mark your place.
The torch your dying hands did throw,
We've held it high before the foe,
And answered bitter blow for blow,
      In Flanders' fields.

And where your heroes' blood was spilled,
The guns are now forever stilled,
And silent grown.
There is no moaning of the slain,
There is no cry of tortured pain,
And blood will never flow again
      In Flanders' fields.

Forever holy in our sight,
Shall be those crosses gleaming white,
That guard your sleep.
Rest you in peace, the task is done,
The fight you left us we have won.
And 'Peace on Earth' has just begun,
      In Flanders now.

                                Edna Jaques

 

"Wonderful poppies of Flanders"

There's a land across the ocean
where the scarlet poppies grow
and the bird's sweet song is saddened,
as if they really know.
There's a place where countless heroes
for their country nobly died
though I'm sad and lonely now
I often think with pride :


Wonderful poppies of Flanders
Flowers of brilliant hue.
Flowers that the angels
have washed with their tears.
They bring me comfort,
through long, lonely years.


I've read a story of love divine
in your petals of brilliant red.
God, in his goodness, has sent you to mark
the graves of our glorious dead.


There is love, devotion, honour
in each little scarlet flower.
I'd kiss each one so fondly
If I had but the power.
May the angels always tend you
is my constant hope and prayer.
For I know that God remembers
all the heroes sleeping there

                                (Unknown Author)

 

 

In Flanders Fields (A Reply)

starting with the text of the original poem, followed by

In Flanders fields the poppies grow,
We've left our soldiers, row by row
Far and away, on distant lands
Where they fought bravely
      And made their stands.

For king, country and the cross,
Paid with lives, but what of the cost.
We cannot erase what we have done
War... there are only losers, winners none.

If we could all but learn from the past,
Then surely THAT war would have been the last.
Speaking for the ones that had to go,
Though poppies grow
      In Flanders fields.

                                        Stan Hilborn

Created By: Sgt. Manning, James R.

                   United States Marine Corps

"Semper-Fi to all my fellow Marines, both Fallen and Alive"

                 "God, Country, Corps"