fought with wilder men. In that arena, a Gallilean fisherman gave up his life a sacrifice for his faith. No human life was ever so nobly avenged. On that spot, was reared the proudest Christian temple ever built by human hands. For its adornment, the rich offerings of every clime and kingdom have been contributed. And now, after eighteen centuries, the hearts of two hundred million people turn towards it with reverence when they worship God. As the traveller descends the Appennines, he sees the dome of St. Peter rising above the desolate Campagna and the dead city, long before the seven hills and ruined palaces appear to his view. The fame of the dead fisherman has outlived the glory of the Eternal City. A noble life, crowned with heroic death rises above and outlives the pride and pomp and glory of the mightiest empire of the earth. Seen from the western slope of our Capitol, in direction, distance, and appearance, this spot is not unlike the Vatican Mount, though the river that flows at our feet is larger than a hundred Tibers. Seven years ago, this was the home of one who lifted his sword against the life of his country, and who became the great Imperator of the rebellion. The soil beneath our feet was watered by the tears of slaves, in whose hearts the sight of yonder proud Capitol awakened no pride, and inspired no hope. The face of the goddess that crowns it, was turned towards the sea and not towards them. But, thanks be to God, this arena of rebellion and slavery is a scene of violence and crime no longer! This will be forever the sacred mountain of our Capitol. Here is our temple; its pavement is the sepulchre of heroic hearts; its dome, the bending heaven; its altar candles, the watching stars. Hither our children's children shall come to pay their tribute of grateful homage. For this are we met to-day. By the happy suggestion of a great society, assemblies like this are gathering, at this hour, in every State in the Union. Thousands of soldiers are to-day turning aside in the march of life to visit the silent encampments of dead comrades who once fought by their side. From many thousand homes, whose light was put out when a soldier fell, there go forth to-day, to join these solemn processions, loving kindred and friends, from whose hearts the shadow of grief will never be lifted till the light of the Eternal world dawns upon them. And here are children, little children, to whom the war left no father but the Father above. By the most sacred right, theirs is the chief place to-day. They come with garlands to crown their victor fathers. I will delay the coronation no longer. Patriotic Song" Our Native Land." Eight voices. The following Original Poem was then read by JULIUS C. SMITH, Esq.: Peace, peace on earth! No battle-flags are flown, No war-clouds rise and frown along the sky; No trumpet for the deadly charge is blown, No lightning-glare of red artillery. Light, from the high empyrean glancing down, We hear no more from battle-plain arise How changed the scene, since those we mourn to-day Moistened, from pulsing veins, the parching soil. Then rose the nation's pibroch loud and shrill, These forms, then animate with earnest life, And shall we sing how first the hands, unused Recite the tale of Ball's ensanguined height, Repeat the tale of Chickahominy, Of Fredericksburg, and Chancellor's barren sand, Where rebel legions pressed to victory, And drew a curtained gloom o'er all the land; Tell how at Wilson's noble Lyon died, And how at Lexington the wrong bore sway; From infancy to youth, from youth to age, Thus our brave comrades learned the art of war At Chickamauga, Belmont, Perrysville; 'Twas wisdom bought with many a costly scar, At last by patient toil came strength of limb, These fleshless hands, now motionless and cold, Enough; 't is done! Hark to the cannons' roar The Shenandoah's vale is darkly red- Yet from the hurricane our arms recoiled Nay, weep not, mother, for thy gallant son See Richmond, traitorous, fire-begirdled town; From Chattanooga to Atlantic's coast, At Appomattox, Lee surrenders all, At Durham, Johnston bends the suppliant knee. Send the glad shout o'er earth's revolving ball; Slavery is crushed! Our noble land is free! Yet pause; the triumph has been bought with blood; Pause, and remove the sandals from thy feet, Yet tell me not the gallant youth are dead; He lives in memory of the good and wise, He lives in gorgeous realms beyond the skies, All art at portraiture divine has failed, In sculpture, pyramid, and fashioned clay; Yet rest these comrades with the God that loves, In all the race one intervital life, By which creation ever onward moves To brighter scenes through elemental strife. There is no life ideal that can cast Its phantom shade beyond the mystic tomb, One present Eden of immortal bloom. And tell me not these unnamed are unknown,* No missing roll or monumental stone In all these interblended heaps of bones They have passed onward through the rift of light They march with God in uniforms of white, One tomb at Arlington contains the remains of 2,111 unknown soldiers. Martyrs for Truth, for Liberty, and Right! This emerald verdure on earth's mother-breast, Are nature's smiles upon the brave and true. Green be the hillocks o'er this hallowed clay; Long may these lyric trees, with waving boughs, Shadow the fragrant flower-encrusted sod; Long may the rosy dawn these songsters rouse In hymns harmonic to the heroes' God. From death's broad stream I hear these comrades hail; I see them beckon to the farther shore; I hear the rustle of the snowy sail, Let vernal year her azure violets bring, Let Summer send her golden sunbeams down, In Winter's storms, let all the sentry stars And we, survivors of the fearful strife, While gathered here around this hallowed clay, Let us anew pledge fortune, honor, life, That from our flag no star shall pass away. We reverently swear by all we love, By all we are, and all we hope to be, Yon starry flag, man's steadfast friend shall prove, Dirge-Forty-Fourth Infantry Band. |