As I was looking around online Saturday, I happened to come across the text of President Obama’s Memorial Day weekend radio address. Here’s how it begins:
There are a couple of things in that first paragraph I found off-putting. (I’ll acknowledge I tend to find many things President Obama says off-putting).
First of all, “Hi, everybody?” Really? For a Memorial Day tribute?
More important, think about the President’s claim that “This year, the holiday is especially meaningful.” He’s wrong. Memorial Day is equally meaningful whether we’re conducting combat operations in Afghanistan or not. Those who have died fighting for our country deserve the same degree of remembrance and tribute regardless of particular presidential decisions. But this is Obama’s solipsism on display. He “ended” our war in Afghanistan, so we, and I suppose families of loved ones as well, are supposed to find this year’s Memorial Day “especially meaningful.” Ugh.
The good news is we have an alternative to reading or listening to the remarks of our current president. We can watch this fine 1984 Memorial Day speech by President Ronald Reagan, discussed by John Noonan here. (As Noonan reminds us, just a week later Reagan gave his memorable speech at Pointe du Hoc on the 40th anniversary of D-Day; there’s no reason not to take a look at that again as well, which you can do here.
Want to do more for Memorial Day? Read Amy Kass and Leon Kass, explaining in 2011 with their usual eloquence and depth why we should take time, each Memorial Day, to remember what the day stands for.
And, finally, some poetry. For those who aren’t familiar with it, I recommend Theodore O’Hara’s poem, “Bivouac of the Dead.” It was written in 1847 in memory of Kentucky troops killed in the Mexican War, but is today famous as a Memorial Day poem because various lines, including the first stanza, are inscribed at places in Arlington Cemetery, including at the McClellan Gate. Here it is:
Bivouac of the Dead
The muffled drum’s sad roll has beat
The soldier’s last tattoo;
No more on Life’s parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.
On fame’s eternal camping ground
Their silent tents to spread,
And glory guards, with solemn round
The bivouac of the dead.
No rumor of the foe’s advance
Now swells upon the wind;
Nor troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ones left behind;
No vision of the morrow’s strife
The warrior’s dreams alarms;
No braying horn or screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.
Their shriveled swords are red with rust,
Their plumed heads are bowed,
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,
Is now their martial shroud.
And plenteous funeral tears have washed
The red stains from each brow,
And the proud forms, by battle gashed
Are free from anguish now.
The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle’s stirring blast,
The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout, are past;
Nor war’s wild note, nor glory’s peal
Shall thrill with fierce delight
Those breasts that nevermore may feel
The rapture of the fight.
Like the fierce Northern hurricane
That sweeps the great plateau,
Flushed with triumph, yet to gain,
Come down the serried foe,
Who heard the thunder of the fray
Break o’er the field beneath,
Knew the watchword of the day
Was “Victory or death!”
Long had the doubtful conflict raged
O’er all that stricken plain,
For never fiercer fight had waged
The vengeful blood of Spain;
And still the storm of battle blew,
Still swelled the glory tide;
Not long, our stout old Chieftain knew,
Such odds his strength could bide.
Twas in that hour his stern command
Called to a martyr’s grave
The flower of his beloved land,
The nation’s flag to save.
By rivers of their father’s gore
His first-born laurels grew,
And well he deemed the sons would pour
Their lives for glory too.
For many a mother’s breath has swept
O’er Angostura’s plain —
And long the pitying sky has wept
Above its moldered slain.
The raven’s scream, or eagle’s flight,
Or shepherd’s pensive lay,
Alone awakes each sullen height
That frowned o’er that dread fray.
Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground
Ye must not slumber there,
Where stranger steps and tongues resound
Along the heedless air.
Your own proud land’s heroic soil
Shall be your fitter grave;
She claims from war his richest spoil —
The ashes of her brave.
Thus ‘neath their parent turf they rest,
Far from the gory field,
Borne to a Spartan mother’s breast
On many a bloody shield;
The sunshine of their native sky
Smiles sadly on them here,
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by
The heroes sepulcher.
Rest on embalmed and sainted dead!
Dear as the blood ye gave;
No impious footstep here shall tread
The herbage of your grave;
Nor shall your glory be forgot
While Fame her record keeps,
For honor points the hallowed spot
Where valor proudly sleeps.
Yon marble minstrel’s voiceless stone
In deathless song shall tell,
When many a vanquished ago has flown,
The story how ye fell;
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter’s blight,
Nor time’s remorseless doom,
Can dim one ray of glory’s light
That gilds your deathless tomb.
