they must not come upon this field, made sacred by such woe.

The column of occupation had begun its movement. Far as the eye could
see, the way was filled with the Northern troops now swinging forward
in the march. Their course would be along this road, across these
earthworks, and over the fields between the wood and the town. The
rattle and rumble of the advance began. Upon the morning air there
rose the gallant and forgetful music which bade the soldier think not
of what had been or would be, but only of the present. The bugles and
the cymbals sounded high and strong in the notes of triumph. The game
was over. The army was coming to take possession of that which it had
won.

It had won--what? Could the answer be told by this chorus of woe which
arose upon the field of Louisburg? Could the value of this winning be
summed by the estimate of these heaps of sodden, shapeless forms? Here
were the fields, and here lay the harvest, the old and the young, the
wheat and the flower alike cut down. Was this, then, what the
conqueror had won?

Near the intrenchment where the bitter close had been, and where there
was need alike for note of triumph, and forgetfulness, the band major
marshalled his music, four deep and forty strong, and swung out into
the anthem of the flag. The march was now generally and steadily
begun. The head of the column broke from the last cover of the wood
and came into full sight at the edge of the open country. Thus there
came into view the whole panorama of the field, dotted with the slain
and with those who sought the slain. The music of triumph was
encountered by the concerted voice of grief and woe. There appeared
for the feet of this army not a mere road, a mere battlefield, but a