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November 19, 1863


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Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth upon this continent, a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final restingplace for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate— we cannot consecrate

we cannot hallow — this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here have consecrated it, far above our power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us — that from

these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion - that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom — and that government of the people, by the people, and for the people, shall not perish from the earth.



O Captain ! my Captain ! our fearful trip is done; The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we

sought is won; The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all

exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring.

But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead!

Rise up

O Captain ! my Captain ! rise up and hear the bells ;

for you the flag is flung — for you the bugle trills; For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths

the shores a-crowding. For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager

faces turning:

- for you

Here Captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck

You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and

still ; My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse

nor will ; The ship is anchord safe and sound, its voyage

closed and done; From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won.

Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells !

But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

- Walt Whitman. *

* From “Leaves of Grass." Reprinted by permission of the publishers, Small, Maynard & Company, Boston.

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PRESENT ARMS. The bugle corps is sounding “ To the Colors," while the Company comes to a


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