Page:Southern Life in Southern Literature.djvu/224

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 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 neighboring 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."