Poem: After the Battle (1862)

Sources: Pacific Commercial Advertiser: November 14, 1861, first page. 
              The Polynesian. Honolulu, February 15, 1862, fourth page.

The drums are all muffled, the bugles are still;
There's a pause in the valley-a halt on the hill;
And bearers of standards swerve back with a thrill,
   Where sheaves of the dead bar the way;
For a great field is reaped; Heaven's garners to fill,
   And stern death holds his harvest to-day.

There's a voice on the winds like spirits low cry-
'Tis the muster roll sounding-and who shall reply?
Not those whose wan faces glare white to the sky,
   With eyes fixed so steadfast and dimly,
As they wait that last trump which they may not defy,
   Whose hands clutch the sword-hilt so grimly.

The brave heads, late lifted, are solemnly bowed,
And the riderless chargers stand quivering and cow'd,
As the burial requiem is chanted aloud,
   The groans of the death-stricken drowning;
While Victory looks on, like a queen, pale and proud,
   Who awaits till the morrow her crowning.

There is no mocking blazon, as clay sinks to clay;
The vain pomps of the peace time are all swept away
In the terrible face of the dread battle day;
   Nor coffins nor shroudings are here;
Only relics that lay where thickest the fray-
   A rent casque and a headless spear.

Far away, tramp on tramp, peals the march of the foe
Like a storm wave's retreating-spent, fitful and slow,
With sounds like their spirits, that faint as they go
   By yon red-glowing river, whose waters
Shall darken with sorrow the land where they flow
   To the eyes of her desolate daughters.

They are fled-they are gone; but oh! not as they came,
In the pride of those numbers they staked on the game;
Never more shall they stand in the vanguard of fame,
   Never lift the stained sword which they drew;
Never more shall they boast of a glorious name,
   Never march with the real and the true.

Where the wreck of our legions lay stranded and lorn,
The stole on our ranks in the mists of the morn;
Like the  giant of Gaza, their strength it was shorn,
   Ere those mists had rolled up to the sky;
From the flash of our steel a new day-break seemed born
   As we rung up-to conquer or die.

The tumult is silenced; the death lots are cast;
And the heroes of battle are slumbering their last,
Do you dream of yon pale form that rode on the blast?
   Would ye free it once more, O ye brave?
Yes! the broad road to honor is red where ye passed,
   And of glory ye asked-but a grave!