Page images
PDF
EPUB

this point of view I would open up the spring campaign, where the great General initiated his remarkable work of genius and daring. I could point you to the soldier pursuing the enemy into the strongholds of Dalton, behind the stern, impassable features of Rocky Face.

Resaca, Adairsville, Cassville, Dallas, New Hope Church, Pickett's Mill, Pine Top, Lost Mountain, Kenesaw, Culp's Farm, Smyrna, Camp Ground, Peach Tree Creek, Atlanta, from so many points of view, and Jonesboro, are names of battle fields upon each of which a soldier's memory dwells. For upwards of a hundred days he scarcely rested from the conflict. He skirmished over rocks, hills and mountains; through mud, streams and forests. For hundreds of miles he gave his aid to dig that endless chain of entrenchments which compassed every one of the enemy's fortified positions. He companied with those who combatted the obstinate foe on the front and on the flanks of those mountain fastnesses which the enemy had deemed impregnable, and he had a right at last to echo the sentiment of his indefatigable leader, " Atlanta is ours, and fairly won." Could you now have patience to turn back with him and fight these battles over again, behold his communications cut, his railroad destroyed for miles and miles; enter the bloody fight of Alatoona, follow him through the forced marches, via Rome, in Georgia, away back to Resaca, and through the obstructed gaps of the mountains into Alabama, you would thank God for giving him a stout heart and an unflinching faith in a just and noble cause. Weary and worn, he reposed at Atlanta, on his return, but one single night, when he commenced the memorable march toward Savannah.

The soldier has become a veteran; he can march all day with his musket, his knapsack, his cartridge-box, his haversack and canteen upon his person; his muscles have become large and rigid, so that what was once extremely difficult he now accomplishes with graceful ease. This fact must be borne in mind when studying the soldiers' marches through Georgia and the Carolinas.

The enemy burned every bridge across stream after stream; the rivers, bordered with swamps-for example, the Ocmulgee, the Oconee, and the Ogechee-were defended at every crossing. That they were passed at all by our forces, is due to the cheerful, fearless, indomitable private soldier. Oh that you had seen him, as I have, wading creeks a half mile in width, and water waist deep, under fire, pressing on through wide swamps, without one faltering step, charging in line upon the most. formidable works, which were well defended! You could then appreciate him and

what he has accomplished as I do. You could then feel the poignant sorrow that I always felt when I saw him fall bleeding to the earth.

I must now leave the soldier to tell his own tale amongst the people, of his bold, bloody work at McAllister, against the torpedoes, abattis, artillery, and musketry; of his privations at Savannah; of his struggles through the swamps, quicksands, and over the broad rivers of the Carolinas; of the fights, fires, explosions, doubts, and triumphs suggested by Griswoldville, Rivers' and Binnaker's bridges, Orangeburg, Congarce creek, Columbia, Cheraw, Fayetteville, Averysboro, and Bentonville. I will leave him to tell how his hopes brightened at the reunion at Goldsboro; how his heart throbbed with gratitude and joy as the wires confirmed the rumored news of Lee's defeat, so soon to be followed by the capture of the enemy's Capitol and of his entire army. I will leave him to tell to yourselves and your children, how he felt and acted, how proud was his bearing, how elastic his step, as he marched in review before the President of the United States at Washington. I would do the soldier injustice not to say that there was one thing wanting to make his satisfaction complete, and that was the sight of the tall form of Abraham Lincoln, and the absence of that bitter recollection which he could not altogether exclude from his heart-that he had died by the hand of a traitor assassin.

I have given you only glimpses of the American soldier, as I have seen him. To feel the full force of what he has done and suffered, you should have accompanied him for the last four years. You should have stood upon the battle fields during and after the struggle; and you should have completed your observation in the army hospitals, and upon the countless grounds peopled with the dead. The maimed bodies, the multidude of graves, the historic fields, the monumental stones like this we are laying to-day, after all are only meagre memorials of the soldiers' work. God grant that what he planted, nourished, and has now preserved by his blood-I mean American liberty-may be a plant dear to us as the apple of the eye, and that its growth may not be hindered till its roots are firmly set in every State of this Union, and till the full fruition of its blessed fruit is realized by men of every name, color and description, in this broad land.

Now, as I raise my eyes and behold the place where my friend and trusted commander, General Reynolds, fell, let me add my own testimonial to that of others, that we lost in him a true patriot, a true man, a complete General, and a thorough soldier. Upon him, and the others who died here for their country, let there never cease to descend the most earnest benediction of every American heart.

Let me congratulate this noble Keystone State that it was able to furnish such tried and able men as Reynolds who fell, and Meade who lived to guide us successfully through this wonderful and hotly contested battle.

In the midst of all conflicts, of all sorrows and triumphs, let us never for an instant forget that there is a God in heaven whose arm is strong to help, whose balm is sweet to assuage every pain, and whose love embraces all joy. To Him, then, let us look in gratitude and praise that it has been His will so greatly to bless our nation; and and may this Monument ever remind us and our posterity, in view of the fact that we prevailed against our enemies, "that righteousness exalteth a nation, but sin is a reproach to any people."

POEM,

BY CHARLES G. HALPINE,

("Miles O'Reilly.")

As men beneath some pang of grief

Or sudden joy will dumbly stand, Finding no words to give relief—

Clear, passion-warm, complete and brief

To thoughts with which their souls expand;

So here to-day-these trophies nigh

Our trembling lips no utterance reach; The hills around, the graves, the skyThe silent poem of the eye

Surpasses all the art of speech!

To-day, a Nation meets to build

A Nation's trophy to the dead

Who, living, formed the sword and shield-
The arms she sadly learned to wield
When other hope of peace had fled.
And not alone for those who lie

In honored graves before us blent,
Shall our proud column, broad and high,
Climb upward to the blessing sky,
But be for all a monument.

An emblem of our grief, as well

For others as for these, we raise; For these beneath our feet who dwell, And all who in the Good Cause fell On other fields, in other frays.

To all the self-same love we bear,

Which here for marbled memory strives;

No soldier for a wreath would care

Which all true comrades might not share-
Brothers in death as in their lives!

On Southern hill-sides, parched and brown,
In tangled swamp, on verdant ridge,
Where pines and broadening oaks look down,
And jasmine weaves its yellow crown,

And trumpet-creepers clothe the hedge;
Along the shores of endless sand,

Beneath the palms of Southern plains,

Sleep everywhere, hand locked in hand,

The brothers of the gallant band

Who here poured life through throbbing veins.

Around the closing eyes of all

The same red glories glared and flew

The hurrying flags, the bugle call,
The whistle of the angry ball,

The elbow-touch of comrades true!
The skirmish fire-a spattering spray;
The long, sharp growl of fire by file,
The thickening fury of the fray
When opening batteries get in play,

And the lines form o'er many a mile.

The foeman's yell, our answering cheer,

Red flashes through the gathering smoke,
Swift orders, resonant and clear,
Blithe cries from comrades tried and dear,
The shell-scream and the sabre-stroke;

The rolling fire from left to right,

From right to left, we hear it swell; The headlong charges swift and bright, The thickening tumult of the fight

And bursting thunders of the shell.

« PreviousContinue »