II.—FUNERAL SERMON OVER THE DEAD.[4]
General Nash, Colonel Boyd, Major White, and Lieutenant Smith: buried in Towamensing
Mennonist Grave-yard, the day after the Battle of Germantown.
“Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord,—they rest from their
labors, and their works do follow them.”
Soldiers and Countrymen:—Our brethren lie before us in all the solemnity
of death. Their eyes are closed, their lips are voiceless; life, with its
hurry and turmoil, its hopes and its fears, with them is over forever. They
have passed from among us, amid the smoke and glare of battle they passed
away; and now, in this solemn grove, amid the silence and quiet of the
evening hour, we have assembled to celebrate their funeral obsequies.
Brethren, look well upon the corses of the dead, mark the eyes hollowed
by decay, the cheeks sunken, and the lips livid with the touch of death;
look upon these forms, but one short day ago moving and throbbing with
the warm blood of life, and now cold, clammy, dead, senseless remains of
clay.
But this is not all, brethren; for as we look upon these corses, the solemn
words of the book break on our ear, through the silence of the evening
air:
Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord, for they rest from their labors,
and their works do follow them.
For they did die in the Lord, my brethren. Fighting in the holiest cause,
fighting against wrong, and might, and violence, the brave Nash rode into
the ranks of battle, and while the bullets of the hirelings whistled around
him, while all was terror and gloom, he fell at the head of his men, bravely
flashing his sword for his fatherland.
So fell White, and so fell Boyd; you have all heard how Lieutenant
Smith met his death. You have heard how he went forth on the battle
morn with the flag of truce in his hand. You have heard how he approached
the fatal mansion on the battle-field; you have heard how these
merciless men pointed their musquets at his heart, and he fell, bathing the
flag of truce with the warm blood of his heart.
They fell, but their blood shall not fall unheeded. George of Brunswick,
may augur success to his cause from the result of this fight, but the
weak and mistaken man shall soon know his delusion false.
From every drop of patriot blood sinking in the sod of Germantown, a
hero shall arise! From the darkness and death of that terrible fight, I see
the angel of our country's freedom springing into birth; beyond the clouds
and smoke of battle, I behold the dawning of a brighter and more glorious
day.
They rest from their labors. From the toilsome labor of the night march,
from the fierce labor of the battle charge, from the labor of bloodshed and
death they rest.
They will no more share the stern joy of the meeting of congregated
armies; no more ride the steed to battle; no more feel their hearts throb at
the sound of the trumpet. All is over.
They rest from their labors! Aye, in the solemn courts of heaven they
rest from their labors, and the immortal great of the past greet them with
smiles and beckonings of joy, their hearts are soothed by the hymnings of
angels, and the voice of the Eternal bids them welcome.
From the dead let me turn to the living.
Let me speak for a moment to the men of the gallant band; let me tell
them that God will fight for them; that though the battle may be fierce and
bloody, still the sword of the Unknown will glisten on the side of the freemen-brothers;
that though the battle clouds may roll their shadows of gloom
over heaps of dying and dead, yet from those very clouds will spring the
day of Freedom, from the very carnage of the battle-field, will bloom the
fruits of a peaceful land.
Man, chosen among men, as the leader of freemen, I speak to thee! And
as the prophets of old, standing on the ramparts of Israel, raised their hands,
and blessed the Hebrew chieftains as they went forth to battle, so now I
bless thee, and bless thy doings; by the graves of the slain, and by the
corses of the patriot dead, I sanctify thy arms, in the name of that God who
never yet beheld fearful wrong without sudden vengeance—in the name of
that Redeemer, whose mission was joy to the captive, freedom to the slave,
I bless thee,—Washington.
On, on, in thy career of glory!
Not the glory of bloodshed, not the halo that is born of the phosphorescent
light hovering around the carcasses of the dead, not the empty fame of
human slaughter. No—no.
The glory of a pure soul, actuated by one motive of good, straining every
purpose of heart to accomplish that motive; neither heeding the threats of
the merciless tyrant, on the one hand, or the calls of ambition on the other,
but speeding forward, with sure and steady steps, to the goal of all thy
hopes—the freedom of this land of the new world.
Such is thy glory, Washington.
On, then, ye gallant men, on, in your career of glory. To day all may
be dark, all may be sad, all may be steeped in gloom. You may be driven
from one battle-field, you may behold your comrades fall wounded and dying
in the path of your retreat. Carnage may thin your ranks, disease walk
through your tents, death track your footsteps.
But the bright day will come at last. The treasure of blood will find its
recompense, the courage, the self-denial and daring of this time will work
out the certain reward of the country's freedom.
Then behold the fruits of your labors.
A land of mighty rivers, colossal mountains, a land of luxurious vallies,
fertile plains, a land of freemen, peopled by happy multitudes of millions,
whose temples echo with hosannas to God, whose oraises repeat your
names, gallant survivors of the battle-field of Germantown.
“THEIR WORKS DO FOLLOW THEM!”
Yes—yes. From the Eternal world, our departed friends shall look
down upon the fruit of their works. From the Vast Unseen they shall look
down upon your banner of blue as the sun gleam of victory glitters on its
stars. They shall behold the skeletons of the invader strewing our shores,
his banners trailed in the dust, his armies annihilated, his strong men over-thrown,
and the temple of his power, toppled from its strong foundations.
They rest from their labors.
Oh, glorious is their resting place, oh, most glorious is their home! As
they flee on spirit-wings to their eternal abode, the ghosts of the mighty-head,
come crowding to the portals of the Unknown, and hail them welcome
home! Brutus of old is there, shaking his gory dagger aloft, Hampden and
Sidney are there, and there are the patriot martyrs from all the scaffolds of
oppressed Europe, each mighty spirit sounding a welcome to the martyrs
of New World freedom.
The dead of Bunker Hill are there, the form of Warren is among the first
in the mighty crowd, and there, raising their gory hands on high, a band of
the martyred men of Brandywine, press forward, and hail their compeers
of Germantown a welcome home.
Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord.
Oh! thrice blessed, oh! blessed on the tongues of nations, blessed in the
hymns of little children, blessed in the tears of woman, shed for their martyrdom;
blessed in the world beyond, forever and forever blessed.
Farewell to ye, mighty dead, on earth! The kind hands of wife or child
were not passed over your brows, when the big drops of the death-dew announced
the approach of the last enemy of man! No blooming child, no
soft-voiced wife, no fair-haired boy was near ye.
Alone ye died. Alone amid the ranks of battle, or ere the battle shout
had yet ceased to echo on your ear. Alone, with fever in your brain, with
fever in your hearts, with maddening throes of pain, forcing from your
manly lips the involuntary cry of agony, yet, with your native land uppermost
in your thoughts, ye died.
And now, brethren, the sun sinking in the west, warns me to close. The
bright golden beams tint the tops of the trees, and fling a shower of light
over the roof of the ancient church. The sky above arches calm and azure,
as though the spirits of the dead smiled from yon clime upon our solemn
ceremonies. The hour is still and solemn, and all nature invites us to the
offering of prayer. Let us pray.
