A common thought pervades all hearts. This is not a day for vainglorious boasting, but for gratitude and praise. We come in sorrow, not in anger, and our hearts are filled with sadness, not revenge. We are not here to upbraid, to accuse, to exult over the defeat of brethren and brave men, to denounce what is no more, to open wounds by the healing touch of Time made whole. No, no; Heaven forbid that this sacred day should stir our hearts to other than feelings of forgiveness, of gratitude, of pride, and of love. Rather let it be said we come to—
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain.
For those who died to save the republic, I have tears and eulogy; for those who died to overthrow it, I have tears and silence.
Not as citizens of a torn and discordant Union, not as blinded partisans, but as children of a common and reunited country, we gather to give expression of our gratitude to those who by their sacrifices and their martyrdom made this land the home of freedom, and the banner of the stars the symbol of one people, one constitution, and one destiny.
We are gathered here—the multitude has put on a suit of woe and stands beside the graves where heroes sleep—not to revive bitter memories, not to cause heartaches or awaken animosities, dead, let us fervently hope, forever, but for a better, worthier, and more patriotic purpose: to teach the rising generation that the dead fell not in vain; to impress upon their youthful hearts that America does not forget the travail through which, by the inscrutable wisdom of Heaven, she has passed, that she loves her loyal sons and daughters with more than Cornelian affection, and treasures them now, and will treasure them forever, as her unfading glory.
And so, my countrymen, we come to sorrow and to rejoice,—to sorrow over the loved and lost, to rejoice over their magnificent achievements and a Union saved and disenthralled by their devotion. As in the Roman days the wives and mothers went out upon the Appian Way to meet the home-returning legions,—some to fall upon the bosoms of husbands, fathers, or sons, and shed tears of joy, and some to search in vain for dear ones amid the broken, decimated ranks, but wept not, because they had died bravely in defense of Rome, her altars, and her fires,—so we welcome to-day the scarred and wounded, the remnant of hard-fought fields; we stretch forth our arms to embrace them; we cover them with garlands emblematic of our love, and scatter flowers in their way to tread upon.
But for the ones who answer not, who sleep the dreamless sleep of death, who died with the face of mother near their hearts, the name of country on their lips, what shall we say? They cannot hear our words nor see the offering of our hands; they are past all battles, all marches, all victories, all defeats; “on Fame’s eternal camping-ground their silent tents are spread,” and the troubled drum disturbs their sleep no more. And yet, O sacred shades of the unreplying dead, we feel your presence now. We hear the shot of Sumter that wakened all the land; we see you coming down from the mountains, up from the plains, and marching away to battle, leaving behind, alas; forever, faithful wife, loving children, aged mother, venerable father; we see you by the campfires dimly burning; we see you in the cannon-smoke and hurricane of war; we hear the command to charge, which you obey, how bravely, with bosom bared and parched, thirsty lips; we see you wounded and bleeding; we see you in the hospitals of fever and pain; we see you again with your regiment, with courage undaunted, your love of home and flag intensified; we see your comrades fall around you like flowers of spring cut down; we see you captured and hurried away; we see you wasting in awful dungeons, languishing in prison-pens; we catch the faint accent of your tongues as you murmur a prayer for your country and for the loved ones that come to you in your dreams; we see you encounter death in the gaunt and hideous form of starvation and quail not; we see you die! Die for what? Die for whom? Die for Union and Liberty. Die for us and generations yet to be.
Dead and living soldiers of the Grand Army of the Republic, you, you engaged in the holiest cause that ever received the approving smile of Heaven; you preserved the Union, “One and inseparable,” with all its blessed memories, with all its priceless benefits, with all its exalted and encouraging hopes. You carried the banner of your country, full high advanced through the darkest hour and wildest storm that ever overwhelmed a nation, until the returning and radiant morn of victory and peace blessed and hallowed it. Moved by the loftiest purposes, inspired by the sublimest sentiments, faithful unto death, you went forth, not to subjugate, not to enslave, not to tear down, but to rescue, to uplift, and to make the name of that liberty for which Warren died and to preserve which Lincoln gave the full measure of his devotion; in the name of all we are and hope to be,—the glorious present and the grander future,—we bow to-day and pay you the poor tribute of our love and tears.
All hail to the saviors of this beloved land! Humbly we lay our offerings on the dead. Reverently we invoke the blessing of Almighty God on the declining years of the living. Long may their eyes be gladdened by the flag they saved; long may their hearts be consoled by the assurance that, while the monuments reared to haughty pride and selfish ambition sink beneath the despoiling hand of time, the soldier’s humble grave, though unadorned by costly urn or marble shaft, will forever be his country’s hallowed ground, where future patriots shall come to rekindle the fires of their devotion and to renew and reaffirm their allegiance to the land by his sacrifices made truly, grandly free. And so we bow before the heroes who saved our country; we stand uncovered beside the graves of the martyrs who died in her sacred cause. Peace and honor to the living; honor and peace to the dead.