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 Under such circumstances, love does not seek new stories to tell, new incidents to relate. Just to its own heart or to some sympathizing ear, it goes over the old scenes, recalls the old memories, tenderly dwells upon and tells them over and over again. Says farewell, and comes back again and stands silent in the presence of the dead. And so, I finish what I had to say, and bid farewell to Stonewall Jackson. And yet, all is not said, for here in Lexington, even in the presence of his mighty shade, our hearts bow down and we are awed by another presence, for the towering form beside him is that of Robert Lee. Thought and feeling and power of expression are paralyzed. I cannot help you now with words, to tell all that is in your hearts. Time fails, and I trust to your memories to recall a group more familiar, in whose presence perhaps we would not be so oppressed, and yet a list of names that ought to be dear to Lexington. I think that in the wide, wide world no town of equal size has had so long a list of glorious dead; so many around whose memories a halo of glory gathers. Reverently I salute them all. And so I leave the grave of my general and my friend, knowing that for centuries men will come to Lexington as a Mecca, and to this grave as a Shrine, and wonderingly talk of this man and his mighty deeds. I know that time will only add to his great fame. I know that his name will be honored and revered forever, just as I know that the beautiful river, flowing near by, will sing an unceasing requiem to his memory—just as I know that the proud mountains, like some vast chain of sentinels, will keep eternal watch over his honored grave.
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