Hope pointed down the long vista of the future to where lay--a tomb!
only a tomb! nay, more--a "bivouac of the dead," where, life's battle
fought, the toilsome march ended, weary comrades might gather to their
rest. And so far distant, yet always in sight, gleamed their Mecca;
steadily towards it marched the pilgrims of memory, unfaltering,
undismayed, led by a few brave, faithful spirits, through deserts of
discouragement, when oases were few and far between, patiently
bridging chasms which seemed impassable, until to-day they stand at
the goal so hardly won. There lie the veterans who one by one have
stolen to the bivouac. "After life's fitful fever they sleep well."
Above, faithful comrades keep watch and ward. Here is a solemn but
glorious trysting-place.
On the morning of the 6th of April, twenty-five years ago, a sky as
bright and beautiful as that which to-day bends above us, became
obscured and darkened by the smoke of battle. Of the Confederate
forces then and there engaged it has been said, "Their splendid valor
has been rarely equalled, never surpassed, on any field of any war."
Alas! why must it be that grief and glory always go hand in hand? Up
through the heavy clouds which hid the face of nature that terrible
day sped hundreds of gallant souls, straight to the light wherein was
made clear _to them_ the awful Providence which even now disquiets our
hearts and clouds our earthly vision.
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