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On fame's eternal camping-ground Their silent tents are spread, And glory guards with solemn round The bivouac of the dead. 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 never more may feel The rapture of the fight.
Combine like three streams from one mountain of snow, And resistless in union rush down on the foe! True son of Sir Evan, undaunted Lochiel, Place thy targe on thy shoulder and burnish thy steel! Rough Keppoch, give breath to thy bugle's bold swell, Till far Coryarrick resound to the knell! Stern son of Lord Kenneth, high chief of Kintail, Let the stag in thy standard bound wild in the gale!
The two men of the color guard stood at the foot of the great staff, dressed out of a tall mountain spruce, at whose top fluttered the flag of this republic. The shrilling of the bugle's beautiful salute to the flag was ringing far and near along the canyon walls.
For five hours that mighty host poured through the canons of brick and stone: Above the bugle's din, Sweating beneath their haversacks, With rifles bristling on their backs, The dusty men trooped in. Company after company, regiment after regiment, brigade after brigade swept by until our eyes grew weary with watching the ranks of grey under the slanting lines of steel.
Three times when I turned abruptly from her to Camille and called, "Hark!" the fagged-out horses halted, and as we struck our listening pose the bugle's faint sigh ever farther in our rear was but feebly proportioned to the amount of our gazing into each other's eyes.
To their dazed senses came the noise of rifle shots, and the sound of a bugle's strident note. Before they could realize that help had at last arrived the Indians had broken away and with wild yells were making for their horses. A detachment of cavalry set out in pursuit, while the commanding officer and his staff rode over to the exhausted defenders.
You must believe that we are coming back." So they parted. And at three in the morning, Celia, lying in her bed, started to a sitting posture. Very far away in the night reveille was sounding for some regiment outward bound; and then the bugles blew for another regiment and another, and another, until everywhere the darkened world grew gaily musical with the bugle's warning.
In other time to pass that stream Were sport for boys at play; But every man through blood must wade Who fords Anjo to-day. The bugle sounds; through flood and flame Charges the line of steel; Above the crash of battle rings The bugle's stern appeal. Why has that bugle ceased to call? Why does it call once more? Why sounds the stirring signal now More faintly than before?
When a man has got a story that with age was stiff and stark when old Father Noah told it to the people in the ark, then he comes, a-bubbling over, to the Weekly Bugle's lair, for he wants to share his gladness with the soulful editaire.
Right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out from Bristol town; And ere the day three hundred horse had met on Clifton down. The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked forth into the night, And saw o'erhanging Richmond-hill the streak of blood-red light. Then bugle's note and cannon's roar the death-like silence broke, And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke.
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