To-day imperishable laurels bloom afresh upon the upturned brows of the men who hail with loud acclaim the image of their chieftain placed here to guard forever
"War's richest spoil,—the ashes of the dead."
It is fitting that, on this day of memory, rich strains of martial music should awaken long-silent echoes in this city of the dead,—fitting that nature should be despoiled of her floral treasures to deck this sacred place which, indeed, is "not so much the tomb of virtue as its shrine."
The flowers that yield their beauty and fragrance to grace this scene will fade and die. Yon radiant sun will set, but not before it has burned an indelible record upon the young hearts of thousands to whom, ere long, we must trust this precious spot.
Of the remnant of the once magnificent Army of Tennessee gathered here it will soon be said,—
"On Fame's eternal camping-ground
Their silent tents are spread."
But the figure of their chieftain will be left to tell the story of a patriotic purpose long cherished in faithful hearts, at last accomplished by patient hands.
"Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,
Nor Time's remorseless doom,