too, for the victor,—on May 2nd, in the culminating act of the drama, Jackson
himself had fallen, and never more is the ‘foot cavalry’ to see again along the smoking lines that calm, stern face;—never to hear again that crisp, fierce order, ‘Give them the bayonet!’
which so often heralded the triumphant charge; never is the Southern
land to be thrilled again with his familiar bulletin—‘God blessed our arms with victory.’
At the age of 39— at a time of life when the powers of manhood are ordinarily scarce full-orbed, he has touched the zenith and filled the world with his fame, and he who went forth two years before from this quiet town, scarce known beyond it, comes back upon the soldier's bier, renowned, revered, and mourned in every clime where the heart quickens in sympathy for surpassing valor, united with transcendent genius and honor without a stain.
There he sleeps, in yon green grave, and as in life he fought, so in death he rests with Lee