To live on in the hearts of others is not to die

To live on in the hearts of other is not to die. A paver in the Natural History Museum carries this epitaph. I recognized the thought as something that was said in my own family when I was a child but I also knew that it was a poem but I could not remember so searched the internet for that information. The poet was Thomas Campbell, a Scot, born 27 July 1777 and died 15 June 1844. He was the grandson of the last Laird of Kirman, Argyll. The youngest of eleven children of Alexander Campbell and Margaret Campbell (of Craignish), he grew up in an intellectual family and became an intellectual himself. He has many poems to his credit but the one that I best remember is "Hallowed Ground."

Hallowed Ground
by Thomas Campbell

What's hallowed ground? Has earth a clod
Its Maker meant not should be trod
By man, the image of his God,
Erect and free,
Unscourged by Superstition's rod
To bow the knee?

That's hallowed ground where, mourned and missed,
The lips repose our love has kissed;--
But where's their memory's mansion? Is't
Yon churchyard's bowers?
No! in ourselves their souls exist,
A part of ours.

A kiss can consecrate the ground
Where mated hearts are mutual bound:
The spot where love's first links were wound,
That ne'er are riven,
Is hallowed down to earth's profound,
And up to heaven!

For time makes all but true love old;
The burning thoughts that then were told
Run molten still in memory's mould;
And will not cool
Until the heart itself be cold
In Lethe's pool.

What hallows ground where heroes sleep?
'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap!
In dews that heavens far distant weep
Their turf may bloom;
Or Genii twine beneath the deep
Their coral tomb.

But strew his ashes to the wind
Whose sword or voice has served mankind,--
And is he dead, whose glorious mind
Lifts thine on high?--
To live in hearts we leave behind
Is not to die.

Is't death to fall for Freedom's right?
He's dead alone that lacks her light!
And murder sullies in heaven's sight
The sword he draws:--
What can alone ennoble fight?
A noble cause!

Give that,--and welcome War to brace
Her drums, and rend heaven's reeking space!
The colors planted face to face,
The charging cheer,
Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase,
Shall still be dear.

And place our trophies where men kneel
To Heaven!--but Heaven rebukes my zeal!
The cause of Truth and human weal,
O God above!
Transfer it from the sword's appeal
To Peace and Love.

Peace, Love! the cherubim, that join
Their spread wings o'er Devotion's shrine,
Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine,
Where they are not,--
The heart alone can make divine
Religion's spot.

To incantations dost thou trust,
And pompous rites in domes august?
See mouldering stones and metal's rust
Belie the vaunt,
That man can bless one pile of dust
With chime or chant.

The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man!
Thy temples,--creeds themselves grow wan!
But there's a dome of nobler span,
A temple given
Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban,--
Its space is heaven!

Its roof, star-pictured Nature's ceiling,
Where, trancing the rapt spirit's feeling,
And God himself to man revealing,
The harmonious spheres
Make music, though unheard their pealing
By mortal ears.

Fair stars! are not your beings pure?
Can sin, can death, your worlds obscure?
Else why so swell the thoughts at your
Aspect above?
Ye must be heavens that make us sure
Of heavenly love!

And in your harmony sublime
I read the doom of distant time;
That man's regenerate soul from crime
Shall yet be drawn,
And reason on his mortal clime
Immortal dawn.

What's hallowed ground? 'Tis what gives birth
To sacred thoughts in souls of worth!--
Peace! Independence! Truth! go forth
Earth's compass round;
And your high-priesthood shall make earth
All hallowed ground.hers is not to die. 

Interesting, this is what genealogy is all about really; not losing the past. Remembering in a close way your siblings, parents, grandparents, and uncle. I chose to write a story about each of my parents, grandparents and my uncle as well as my great aunts and uncles that I knew. For my parents that is about 300 pages each; for my grandparents around 100 pages each where I could and for my uncle an equal number. Less for great aunts and uncles but a surprising amount for my great grandparents whom I never knew except in little stories that I happened to recall.