"A regiment going through," said they, and ran to the window to see if
it passed their way, looking for it up the long street, which lay solemn
and still in the moonlight. On either side the palace-like houses stood
stately and dark, like giant sentinels guarding the magnificent avenue,
from whence was banished every sight and sound of the busy life of day;
not a noise, not a footfall, not a solitary soul abroad, not a wave nor
a vestige of the great restless sea of humanity which a little space
before surged through it, and which, in a little while to come, would
rise and swell to its full, and then ebb, and fall, and drop away once
more into silence and nothingness.
Through this white stillness there came marching a regiment of men,
without fife or drum, moving to the music of a refrain which lifted and
fell on the quiet air. It was the Battle Hymn of the Republic,--and the
two listeners presently distinguished the words,--
"In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me;
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
While God is marching on."
The effect of this; the thousand voices which sang; the marching of
twice one thousand feet; the majesty of the words; the deserted street;
the clear moonlight streaming over the men, reflected from their
gleaming bayonets, brightening the faded blue of their uniforms,
illumining their faces which, one and all, seemed to wear--and probably
_did_ wear--a look more solemn and earnest than that of common life and
feeling,--the combined effect of it all was something indescribably
impressive:--inspiring, yet solemn.
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