But the great conflict through which we are passing has made sorrow too
frequent a guest for us to linger on an occasion like this over every
beloved name which the day recalls to our memory. Many of the children
whom our mother had trained to arts have given the freshness of their
youth or the strength of their manhood to arms. How strangely frequent
in our recent record is the sign interpreted by the words "_E vivis
cesserunt stelligeri!_" It seems as if the red war-planet had replaced
the peaceful star, and these pages blushed like a rubric with the long
list of the martyr-children of our university. I can not speak their
eulogy, for there are no phrases in my vocabulary fit to enshrine the
memory of the Christian warrior,--of him--


"Who, doomed to go in company with Pain
And Fear and Bloodshed, miserable train,
Turns his necessity to glorious gain--"

"Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth
Forever, and to noble deeds give birth,
Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame,
And leave a dead, unprofitable name,
Finds comfort in himself and in his cause;
And while the mortal mist is gathering, draws
His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause."


Yet again, O brothers! this is not the hour for sorrow. Month after
month until the months became years we have cried to those who stood
upon our walls: "Watchmen, what of the night?" They have answered again
and again, "The dawn is breaking,--it will soon be day." But the night