Darwin French - Poem

Poem

The Battle of San Pasgual by Dr. E. D. French, circa 1847.

Twenty new graves must be made today;
Twenty cold bodies to be laid away.
Or bury them down in one single bed;
In one single tomb let them rest with the dead.
At the lone midnight hour they were carried along,
No salute could be fired—no funeral song;
For our battle had been in the land of the foe,
And now in dark silence to the tomb they must go:
We kindred were there to embalm with a tear,
The last dying moments to friendship so dear;
Nor even to weep on that desolate night;
As their loved ones were buried forever from sight.
Long had we marched through the heat and the rain;
Crossed the great rivers that swept through the plain;
Encountered the mountains that stood in our way,
And passed through the forest without fear or delay.
We came to the border—the Mexican land;
To mountains of granite, and rivers of sand,
Marched through deep passes and narrow defiles,
‘Till we came to the valley of sun light and smiles,—
Here our flag we raised high for the breezes were free,
As we came to the city of Santa Fe.
Now echo of cannon pealed loud through the air,,
The American troops in full conquest were there:
And we marched through the streets of that time honored place,
And seized the domain of the Mexican race.
Nor yet was our halting, for onward we pressed;
To reach the Pacific; the shore of the west:—
The great rocky mountains we passed in our glee,
Intent to embrace the white waves of the Sea.
California was reached, and her vales of renown,
Were spread in their beauty like gems in a crown.
The journey to us was like a parade
Or some pleasure seeking, holiday made.
But here just at dawn when all nature was still,
The foe we attacked at the base of the hill,
And e’re in our triumph the conquest could gain;
In the tide of the fight our companions were slain.
So down in the willows beneath the dark cloud,
Which rolled in the sky like a burial shroud;
We laid the brave men that so suddenly died;
E’re they marched o’er the land they had barely espied.
Then peaceful their sleep in the lone grave shall be,
They shall feel no more wounds—no more battle shall see.
No foe with their chargers and lances draw nigh—
No grief e’re their zephyr’ soft sigh.
Farewell; we have left thee; companions in arms;
Our lives may be joyful, or filled with alarms—
Whatever our joy or sorrow may be,
We’ll remember the graves by the one willow tree.