GENERAL ALEXANDER HAYES
KILLED IN THE BATTLE OF
THE WILDERNESS
MAY THE 5TH 1864.
BORN JULY THE 8TH 1819.
THIS MONUMENT WAS ERECTED
BY THE SOLDIERS OF HIS COMMAND
This monument is topped with an eagle standing on a flag-draped sarcophagus. An eagle often represents the Fraternal Order of Eagles, but in this case the eagle connotes service in the military.
West Point graduate Hayes served with distinction in two wars—the Mexican American War and the Civil War. According to Images of America: Allegheny Cemetery, published by Arcadia Publishing, written by Lisa Speranza and Nancy Foley, page 55, Hayes was “promoted twice for gallantry in the Civil War, Hayes was severely injured at Second Bull Run and largely responsible for repulsing Pickett’s Charge at Gettysburg.” General Hayes was leading his troops at the Battle of the Wilderness, when a “sniper’s bullet found his head, killing him instantly.”
The men of his command erected this monument which President Ulysses Grant, who became friends with Hayes at West Point and served with him during the Civil War, visited his grave and “circling the monument in contemplative silence, … sat upon an inverted cannon and openly wept.”
On the plinth, reads the following stanza which is the second quatrain from the poem “Bivouac of the Dead” by Theodore O’Hara. The poem was written to mourn the war dead from the Mexican American War and gained popularity during the Civil War:
On Fame’s eternal camping-ground
Their silent tents are spread,
And Glory guards, with solemn round,
The bivouac of the dead.
The full poem:
“BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD”
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;
Nor 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 shriveled 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 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 the 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 gory tide;
Not long, our stout old chieftain knew,
Such odds his strength could bide.
Twas in that hour his stern command
Called to a martyr’s grave
The flower of his beloved land,
The nation’s flag to save.
By rivers of their father’s gore
His first-born laurels grew,
And well he deemed the sons would pour
Their lives for glory too.
For many a mother’s breath has swept
O’er Angostura’s plain —
And long the pitying sky has wept
Above its moldered 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 gory 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 shall here tread
The herbage of your grave;
Nor shall your glory be forgot
While fame her records 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 vanquished ago has 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.