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 and through the sculptor's touch, has restored his form and features—a Valentine has lifted the marble veil and disclosed him to us as we would love to look upon him—lying, the flower of knighthood, in ‘Joyous Gard.’ His sword beside him is sheathed forever. But honor's seal is on his brow, and valor's star is on his breast, and the peace that passeth all understanding descends upon him. Here, not in the hour of his grandest triumph of earth, as when, mid the battle roar, shouting battalions followed his trenchant sword, and bleeding veterans forgot their wounds to leap between him and his enemies—but here in victory, supreme over earth itself, and over death, its conqueror, he rests, his warfare done. And as we seem to gaze once more on him we loved and hailed as chief, in his sweet, dreamless sleep, the tranquil face is clothed with heaven's light, and the mute lips seem eloquent with the message that in life he spoke: ‘There is a true glory and a true honor, the glory of duty done,—the honor of the integrity of principle.’
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