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And there came the nameless dead,—the men
Who perished in fever-swamp and fen,
The slowly-starved of the prison-pen;

And, marching beside the others,
Came the dusky martyrs of Pillow's fight,
With limbs enfranchised and bearing bright:
I thought-perhaps 'twas the pale moonlight-

They looked as white as their brothers!

And so all night marched the Nation's dead,
With never a banner above them spread,
Nor a badge, nor a motto brandished;
No mark-save the bare uncovered head

Of the silent bronze Reviewer;
With never an arch save the vaulted sky;
With never a flower save those that lie
On the distant graves—for love could buy

No gift that was purer or truer.

So all night long swept the strange array;
So all night long, till the morning, gray,
I watch'd for one who had passed away,

With a reverent awe and wonder,—
Till a blue cap waved in the lengthening line,
And I knew that one who was kin of mine
Had come; and I spake—and lo! that sign

Awakened me from my slumber.



Bring the good old bugle, boys; we'll sing another

song, Sing it with a spirit that will start the world along,Sing it as we used to sing it, fifty thousand strong, While we were marching through Georgia.


Hurrah, hurrah! we bring the jubilee!
Hurrah, hurrah! the flag that makes you free!
So we sang the chorus from Atlanta to the sea,
While we were marching through Georgia.

How the darkies shouted when they heard the joyful

sound! How the turkeys gobbled which our commissary

found! How the sweet potatoes even started from the ground, While we were marching through Georgia!


Yes, and there were Union men who wept with joyful

tears When they saw the honored flag they had not seen for

years; Hardly could they be restrained from breaking forth

in cheers While we were marching through Georgia!


Sherman's dashing Yankee boys will never reach the

coast!” So the saucy rebels said,—and 'twas a handsome

boast. Had they not forgot, alas! to reckon on a host, While we were marching through Georgia !


So we made a thoroughfare for Freedom and her

Sixty miles in latitude, three hundred to the main;
Treason fled before us, for resistance was in vain,
While we were marching through Georgia !




You of the North have had drawn for you with a master's hand the picture of your returning armies. You have heard how, in the pomp and circumstance of war, they came back to you, marching with proud and victorious tread, reading their glory in a nation's eyes. Will you bear with me while I tell you of another army that sought its home at the close of the late war

-an army that marched home in defeat and not in victory, in pathos and not in splendor ?

Let me picture to you the footsore Confederate soldier, as, buttoning up his faded gray jacket, the parole which was the testimony to his children of his fidelity and faith, he turned his face southward from Appomattox in April, 1865. Think of him as ragged, half-starved, heavy-hearted, enfeebled by want and wounds; having fought to exhaustion, he surrenders his gun, wrings the hands of his comrades in silence, and lifting his tear-stained and pallid face for the last time to the graves that dot the old Virginia hills, pulls his gray cap over his brow and begins the slow and painful journey.

What does he find_let me ask you, who went to your homes eager to find, in the welcome you had justly earned, full payment for four years' sacrificewhat does he find when, having followed the battlestained cross against overwhelming odds, dreading death not half as much as surrender, he reaches the home he left so prosperous and beautiful?

He finds his house in ruins, his farms devastated, his slaves free, his stock killed, his barns empty, his trade destroyed, his money worthless; his social system, feudal in its magnificence, swept away; his people without law or legal status, his comrades slain, and the burdens of others heavy on his shoulders. Crushed by defeat, his very traditions are gone; without money, credit, employment, material, or training; and, besides all this, confronted with the gravest problem that ever met human intelligence—the establishing of a status for the vast body of his liberated slaves.

What does he do—this hero in gray with a heart of gold? Does he sit down in sullenness and despair? Not for a day. Surely God, who had stripped him in his prosperity, inspired him in his adversity. As ruin

so overwhelming, never was restoration



swifter. The soldier stepped from the trenches, into the furrow; horses that had charged Federal guns marched before the plow, and fields that ran red with blood in April were green with the harvest of June.

Never was nobler duty confided to human hands than the uplifting and upbuilding of the prostrate and bleeding South, misguided, perhaps, but beautiful in her suffering. In the record of her social, industrial, and political evolution, we await with confidence the verdict of the world.


ODE ” 1


Whither leads the path
To ampler fates that leads ?
Not down through flowery meads

To reap an aftermath
Of youth’s vainglorious weeds,
But up the steep, amid the wrath
And shock of deadly-hostile creeds,

Where the world's best hope and stay
By battle's flashes gropes a desperate way,
And every turf the fierce foot clings to bleeds.

Peace hath her not ignoble wreath,

Ere yet the sharp, decisive word
Light the black lips of cannon, and the sword

Dreams in its easeful sheath; 'By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

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