every sod. To Nature's signs of tenderness we add our own. Not "ashes
to ashes, dust to dust," but blossoms to blossoms, laurels to the
laureled.

The great Civil War has passed by--its great armies were disbanded,
their tents struck, their camp-fires put out, their muster-rolls laid
away. But there is another army whose numbers no Presidential
proclamation could reduce, no general orders disband. This is their
camping-ground--these white stones are their tents--this list of names
we bear is their muster-roll--their camp-fires yet burn in our hearts.

I remember this "Sweet Auburn" when no sacred associations made it
sweeter, and when its trees looked down on no funerals but those of the
bird and the bee. Time has enriched its memories since those days. And
especially during our great war, as the Nation seemed to grow
impoverished in men, these hills grow richer in associations, until
their multiplying wealth took in that heroic boy who fell in almost the
last battle of the war. Now that roll of honor has closed, and the work
of commemoration begun.

Without distinction of nationality, of race, of religion, they gave
their lives to their country. Without distinction of religion, of race,
of nationality, we garland their graves to-day. The young Roman Catholic
convert who died exclaiming "Mary! pardon!" and the young Protestant
theological student, whose favorite place of study was this cemetery,
and who asked only that no words of praise might be engraven on his
stone--these bore alike the cross in their lifetime, and shall bear it
alike in flowers to-day. They gave their lives that we might remain one
Nation, and the Nation holds their memory alike in its arms.