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These heroes are dead. They died for liberty – they died for us. They are at rest. They sleep in the land they made free, under the flag they rendered stainless, under the solemn pines, the sad hemlocks, the tearful willows, and the embracing vines. They sleep beneath the shadows of the clouds, careless alike of sunshine or of storm, each in the windowless Place of Rest. Earth may run red with other wars – they are at peace. In the midst of battle, in the roar of conflict, they found the serenity of death. I have one sentiment for soldiers living and dead: cheers for the living; tears for the dead.
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These martyrs of patriotism gave their lives for an idea.
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These who have ensured their remembrance by their deserts. [Lat., Quique sui memores alios fecere merendo.]
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They fell, but o”er their glorious grave Floats free the banner of the cause they died to save.
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They hover as a cloud of witnesses above this Nation.
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They saw their injured country”s woe; The flaming town, the wasted field; Then rushed to meet the insulting foe; They took the spear, – but left the shield.
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They say a picture is worth a thousand words. To me, a picture is worth a thousand memories; for when all is said and done, it is the memories that last with us forever.
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They taught me how to imagine, and how to dream. They gave me wonderful memories, and left footprints on my heart.
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This memory brightens o’er the past, As when the sun concealed Behind some cloud that near us hangs, Shines on a distant field.
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Tho’ lost to sight to mem’ry dear Thou ever wilt remain.
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Tho’ lost to sight, within this filial breast Hendrick still lives in all his might confest.
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Those who cannot remember the past will spend a lot of time looking for their cars in mall parking lots.
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Thou comest as the memory of a dream, Which now is sad because it hath been sweet.
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Thou old unhappy traitor, Briefly thyself remember.
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Though sands be black and bitter black the sea, Night lie before me and behind me night, And God within far Heaven refuse to light The consolation of the dawn for me,– Between the shadowy burns of Heaven and Hell, It is enough love leaves my soul to dwell With memory.
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Though varying wishes, hopes, and fears, Fever’d the progress of these years, Yet now, days, weeks, and months but seem The recollection of a dream.
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Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother’s death The memory be green, and that it us befitted To bear our hearts in grief, and our whole kingdom To be contracted in one brow of woe, Yet so far hath discretion fought with nature That we with wisest sorrow think on him Together with remembrance of ourselves.
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Through the shadowy past, like a tomb-searcher, memory ran, lifting each shroud that time had cast o’er buried hopes.
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Time — our youth — it never really goes, does it? It is all held in our minds.
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To be remembered after we are dead, is but poor recompense for being treated with contempt while we are living.’ William Hazlitt
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