VENERABLE MEN! you have come down to us from a former generation.  Heaven has bounteously lengthened out your lives, that you might behold this joyous day.  You are now where you stood fifty years ago, this very hour, with your brothers and your neighbors, shoulder to shoulder, in the strife for your country.  Behold, how altered!  The same heavens are indeed over your heads; the same ocean rolls at your feet; but all else how changed!  You hear now no roar of hostile cannon, you see no mixed volumes of smoke and flame rising from burning Charlestown.  The ground strewed with the dead and the dying; the impetuous charge; the steady and successful repulse; the loud call to repeated assault; the summoning of all that is manly to repeated resistance; a thousand bosoms freely and fearlessly bared in an instant to whatever of terror there may be in war and death;—­all these you have witnessed, but you witness them no more.  All is peace.  The heights of yonder metropolis, its towers and roofs, which you then saw filled with wives and children and countrymen in distress and terror, and looking with unutterable emotions for the issue of the combat, have presented you to-day with the sight of its whole happy population, come out to welcome and greet you with a universal jubilee.  Yonder proud ships, by a felicity of position appropriately lying at the foot of this mount, and seeming fondly to cling around it, are not means of annoyance to you, but your country’s own means of distinction and defence.[6] All is peace; and God has granted you this sight of your country’s happiness, ere you slumber in the grave.  He has allowed you to behold and to partake the reward of your patriotic toils; and he has allowed us, your sons and countrymen, to meet you here, and in the name of the present generation, in the name of your country, in the name of liberty, to thank you!

But, alas! you are not all here!  Time and the sword have thinned your ranks.  Prescott, Putnam, Stark, Brooks, Read, Pomeroy, Bridge! our eyes seek for you in vain amid this broken band.  You are gathered to your fathers, and live only to your country in her grateful remembrance and your own bright example.  But let us not too much grieve, that you have met the common fate of men.  You lived at least long enough to know that your work had been nobly and successfully accomplished.  You lived to see your country’s independence established, and to sheathe your swords from war.  On the light of Liberty you saw arise the light of Peace, like

                “another morn,
    Risen on mid-noon”;

and the sky on which you closed your eyes was cloudless.