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,
No longer falls on heaps of mangled dead:
Reveals no more the close-beleaguered town,
Or path of fire, whereon the foe hath fled.

We hear no more from battle-plain arise
The ringing shout of frantic, grappling hosts,
Or those wild, piercing, anguish-laden cries,
That haunt the memory like immortal ghosts.

How changed the scene, since those we mourn to-day
Heard Slavery's challenge, at their peaceful toil;
Met the defiant foe in battle-fray;

Moistened, from pulsing veins, the parching soil.

Then rose the nation's pibroch loud and shrill,
Then flashed the burning cross o'er northern plains;
On mountain-steeps, by hamlet, vale, and rill,
True manhood roused to break the bondman's chains.

These forms, then animate with earnest life,
In shop and field the slogan message caught,
Pressed to their bosoms, mother, sister, wife,
And the dark field of strife and carnage sought.

And shall we sing how first the hands, unused
To martial weapons, at Manassas failed;
How Tyranny our name and fame abused,
Our manly courage and our cause assailed;

Recite the tale of Ball's ensanguined height,
Of Bethel's slaughter and Vienna's gore;
How dying, gifted Baker, Winthrop, fight;
How gallant Lander's wounds shall heal no more;

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;
How once again Manassas' field was tried
And doubly lost upon that fatal day?

From infancy to youth, from youth to age,
By failures oft life's lessons are attained;
Preludes, are stammering words, to wisdom sage;
By stumbling steps pedestrian skill is gained.

Thus our brave comrades learned the art of war At Chickamauga, Belmont, Perrysville;

'Twas wisdom bought with many a costly scar,
Lessons no early victory could instil.

At last by patient toil came strength of limb,
Came skill of eye and hand in martial art;
They felt the muscles of the Anakim,
The throbbing pulses of a Titan's heart.

These fleshless hands, now motionless and cold,
By due experience taught, were raised in might;
These eyes, now changed to pale terrestrial mould,
Along the carbine gained unerring sight.

Enough; 't is done! Hark to the cannons' roar
Upon Antietam's blood-encircled field;
See! Gettysburg is drenched in rebel gore;
At Donelson the boastful traitors yield.

The Shenandoah's vale is darkly red-
'Tis rebel blood, transformed to ebon hue;
Vicksburg is ours; and see how proudly tread
Our marching legions, broad savannas through.

Yet from the hurricane our arms recoiled
At Shiloh's church and Murfreesboro's plain,
But battling still our steadfast heroes toiled,
Till on yon banner Victory smiled again.

Nay, weep not, mother, for thy gallant son
Who, fighting, fell in that umbrageous wood;
He gave his life for man-'t was nobly done-
And here he sleeps among the brave and good.

See Richmond, traitorous, fire-begirdled town;
See Mountain Lookout, Missionary Heights;
Above the clouds the brazen cannon frown;
Above the clouds each stalwart hero fights.

From Chattanooga to Atlantic's coast,
From the sea northward to Virginia's line,
I see the track of Freedom's conquering host,
To justice, friends-to wrong, a scourge divine.

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;
Great was the purchase, great the price we paid;
A million forms are crumbling 'neath the sod,
A score of thousands are around us laid.

Pause, and remove the sandals from thy feet,
Press not, with rash intrusion, holy ground;
This forest is the hero's calm retreat,
The camp, angelic guards encircle round.

Yet tell me not the gallant youth are dead;
These are but forms that moulder and decay;
The man shall live, who e'er for manhood bled,
Through time's vast aions, heaven's eternal day.

He lives in memory of the good and wise,
He lives in grateful histrionic lore,

He lives in gorgeous realms beyond the skies,
He lives in fervid song forevermore.

All art at portraiture divine has failed,

In sculpture, pyramid, and fashioned clay;
Osiris, sun-crowned, Isis, darkly veiled,
Or Memnon musical at rising day.

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,
But one eternal landscape of the past,

One present Eden of immortal bloom.

And tell me not these unnamed are unknown,*
These thousands in the consecrated tomb-

No missing roll or monumental stone
Can shroud a hero in historic gloom.

In all these interblended heaps of bones
There's not a nerve to feel, a heart to love;
No passion's flame, no music's silvery tones;
Sense, life, and feeling, all have passed above.

They have passed onward through the rift of light
That parts the clouds above primordial strife;

They march with God in uniforms of white,
And drink the true nepenthe-draught of life.

One tomb at Arlington contains the remains of 2,111 unknown soldiers.

Martyrs for Truth, for Liberty, and Right!
To you shall rise the nation's high acclaim;
You are not lost in dim historic night-
These graves are subterranean paths to fame.

This emerald verdure on earth's mother-breast,
These oaks umbrageous, and this moist'ning dew,
This orchestra of birds, this holy rest,

Are nature's smiles upon the brave and true.

Green be the hillocks o'er this hallowed clay;
Sweet be the garlands loving hands shall bring;
Just be the tribute eloquence shall pay;
Tender the song the minstrel harp shall sing.

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,
The soft baptismal of the phantom oar.

Let vernal year her azure violets bring,
To deck the sod that folds this sacred clay;
Let forest choirs their sweetest carols sing
At morning reveille and closing day.

Let Summer send her golden sunbeams down,
In graceful salutations for the dead,
And Autumn's moving host of leaflets brown
Break ranks above the fallen soldier's head.

In Winter's storms, let all the sentry stars
That on yon battlements their vigils keep,
Smile on these wasting forms, these holy scars,
And guard the field where worth and valor sleep.

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,
And wave forever o'er the brave and free.

Dirge-Forty-Fourth Infantry Band.