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Louisiana (Louisiana, United States) (search for this): chapter 3.27
oice from the tomb sweeter than song, and there is a remembrance of the dead to which we turn, even from the charms of the living. For those faces and that figure brought the dead to life. There was Albert Sidney Johnston, coming out from the cloud and mist of misapprehension and detraction, vindicated in his dying as the peer of the most illustrious in that grand galaxy of generals, statesmen, and heroes that have made the name and fame of the Southern Confederacy immortal. There was Louisiana's bishop-general, Polk, who, with a lofty soul, a clear conscience, and an abiding faith, and clad in the divine panoply, wore also with ease and grace the armor of human strife. There was Stonewall Jackson, flashing through the conflict the very genius of battle. And there, too, was Lee, first in war, first in peace, and still first in all our hearts. And above, and of right crowning that monumental shaft and looking down upon that heroic group, stood that figure leaning upon his gun,
Ardennes (France) (search for this): chapter 3.27
with Scripture and prayer, I buried seventy of the best and bravest of my brigade, placed side by side in the long trenches that were their common grave. And that fight at Peach Tree Creek, above Atlanta, where, of our 1,230 that went in, but 650 came out. Ah! how often, as we entered those fields of slaughter, looking along our devoted ranks, the pathos and power of those lines, in which a master of words commemorates Waterloo, thrilled my soul as prophecies of that awaiting us: And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave, alas! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass, Which now beneath them but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valor rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal sound
Yorktown (Virginia, United States) (search for this): chapter 3.27
heir eyes not suffered to see Canaan nor their feet to press its sacred soil; for in that day God came down and talked with Moses in the mount, and gave to them that law that is the basis of the truth and right and justice that to-day prevail throughout Christendom. And so with us, in that seven years struggle that made us a nation. It was well worth twice ten years of peaceful life to have lived and labored with Washington, to have fought at Bunker's Hill and Saratoga, at Princeton and Yorktown, and to have suffered and endured at Valley Forge. But it may be said that these gained and ours lost. Well, be it so. Were the lives of ours, therefore, wasted, and did our dead die in vain? As well say so of the martys, whose blood was the seed of the church. And, drawing reverently the parallel, when Jesus died in agony and ignominy, Pilate and Herod lived. In that eclipse of the God-man, was his cause lost? Why, in three centuries he became the world's master, his name ruling th
Atlanta (Georgia, United States) (search for this): chapter 3.27
rs, tender memories are awakened in our hearts — memories of men whose hearts were knit to ours in the camp, the march, the bivouac, the siege and the battle. And as Shiloh, and Murfreesboro, and Chickamauga, and Chattanooga, and Vicksburg, and Atlanta, and Franklin, and Nashville, and Mansfield, and Pleasant Hill, pass before us, familiar forms and faces appear instinct with the life and bright with the light that was the strength and the joy of those camping and campaigning days. And some o remember how, the day after, as their chaplain, with Scripture and prayer, I buried seventy of the best and bravest of my brigade, placed side by side in the long trenches that were their common grave. And that fight at Peach Tree Creek, above Atlanta, where, of our 1,230 that went in, but 650 came out. Ah! how often, as we entered those fields of slaughter, looking along our devoted ranks, the pathos and power of those lines, in which a master of words commemorates Waterloo, thrilled my sou
Israel (Israel) (search for this): chapter 3.27
lift him toward the eternal. Were I a Jew — whose records are the grandest — and were I asked in what period of my people's history it was most an honor to have lived, I would select, not David's glorious day, when surrounding nations bowed to Israel's conquering arms, nor Solomon's golden time — Israel's high noon of peace and plenty — but I would choose, rather, the life time of that generation that camped forty years in the wilderness, their eyes not suffered to see Canaan nor their feet tIsrael's high noon of peace and plenty — but I would choose, rather, the life time of that generation that camped forty years in the wilderness, their eyes not suffered to see Canaan nor their feet to press its sacred soil; for in that day God came down and talked with Moses in the mount, and gave to them that law that is the basis of the truth and right and justice that to-day prevail throughout Christendom. And so with us, in that seven years struggle that made us a nation. It was well worth twice ten years of peaceful life to have lived and labored with Washington, to have fought at Bunker's Hill and Saratoga, at Princeton and Yorktown, and to have suffered and endured at Valley F
Edgefield (Tennessee, United States) (search for this): chapter 3.27
our dead the highest tribute. What said that pair of scales set there in silent but expressive beauty? Weighed in the balances they were not found wanting. Comrades, I know that as the words of our toast arrest our ears, tender memories are awakened in our hearts — memories of men whose hearts were knit to ours in the camp, the march, the bivouac, the siege and the battle. And as Shiloh, and Murfreesboro, and Chickamauga, and Chattanooga, and Vicksburg, and Atlanta, and Franklin, and Nashville, and Mansfield, and Pleasant Hill, pass before us, familiar forms and faces appear instinct with the life and bright with the light that was the strength and the joy of those camping and campaigning days. And some of them, alas I we see bathed in their blood, shrouded in their blankets and laid away in their nameless graves. Well do I recall our charges up Franklin's fatal slope, and remember how, the day after, as their chaplain, with Scripture and prayer, I buried seventy of the best a
Shiloh, Tenn. (Tennessee, United States) (search for this): chapter 3.27
came as friends, a homage paid through floral offerings symbolizing love and peace, our association offered our dead the highest tribute. What said that pair of scales set there in silent but expressive beauty? Weighed in the balances they were not found wanting. Comrades, I know that as the words of our toast arrest our ears, tender memories are awakened in our hearts — memories of men whose hearts were knit to ours in the camp, the march, the bivouac, the siege and the battle. And as Shiloh, and Murfreesboro, and Chickamauga, and Chattanooga, and Vicksburg, and Atlanta, and Franklin, and Nashville, and Mansfield, and Pleasant Hill, pass before us, familiar forms and faces appear instinct with the life and bright with the light that was the strength and the joy of those camping and campaigning days. And some of them, alas I we see bathed in their blood, shrouded in their blankets and laid away in their nameless graves. Well do I recall our charges up Franklin's fatal slope, an
Princeton, W. Va. (West Virginia, United States) (search for this): chapter 3.27
wilderness, their eyes not suffered to see Canaan nor their feet to press its sacred soil; for in that day God came down and talked with Moses in the mount, and gave to them that law that is the basis of the truth and right and justice that to-day prevail throughout Christendom. And so with us, in that seven years struggle that made us a nation. It was well worth twice ten years of peaceful life to have lived and labored with Washington, to have fought at Bunker's Hill and Saratoga, at Princeton and Yorktown, and to have suffered and endured at Valley Forge. But it may be said that these gained and ours lost. Well, be it so. Were the lives of ours, therefore, wasted, and did our dead die in vain? As well say so of the martys, whose blood was the seed of the church. And, drawing reverently the parallel, when Jesus died in agony and ignominy, Pilate and Herod lived. In that eclipse of the God-man, was his cause lost? Why, in three centuries he became the world's master, his
Chattanooga (Tennessee, United States) (search for this): chapter 3.27
rings symbolizing love and peace, our association offered our dead the highest tribute. What said that pair of scales set there in silent but expressive beauty? Weighed in the balances they were not found wanting. Comrades, I know that as the words of our toast arrest our ears, tender memories are awakened in our hearts — memories of men whose hearts were knit to ours in the camp, the march, the bivouac, the siege and the battle. And as Shiloh, and Murfreesboro, and Chickamauga, and Chattanooga, and Vicksburg, and Atlanta, and Franklin, and Nashville, and Mansfield, and Pleasant Hill, pass before us, familiar forms and faces appear instinct with the life and bright with the light that was the strength and the joy of those camping and campaigning days. And some of them, alas I we see bathed in their blood, shrouded in their blankets and laid away in their nameless graves. Well do I recall our charges up Franklin's fatal slope, and remember how, the day after, as their chaplain,
Waterloo, Seneca County, New York (New York, United States) (search for this): chapter 3.27
lin's fatal slope, and remember how, the day after, as their chaplain, with Scripture and prayer, I buried seventy of the best and bravest of my brigade, placed side by side in the long trenches that were their common grave. And that fight at Peach Tree Creek, above Atlanta, where, of our 1,230 that went in, but 650 came out. Ah! how often, as we entered those fields of slaughter, looking along our devoted ranks, the pathos and power of those lines, in which a master of words commemorates Waterloo, thrilled my soul as prophecies of that awaiting us: And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave, alas! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass, Which now beneath them but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valor rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve
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