Memorial Day 2007 comes in the midst of a long and controversial war that shows no sign of ending. Today is no day to debate the merits of that war but rather to recognize again the great debt this nation owes to its fighting forces from the Revolution until the present day, from Bunker Hill to Fallujah and beyond.

Every year at this time the Post-Gazette pays tribute to those who risk their lives and have made the ultimate sacrifice to preserve the freedoms that we Americans hold dear.

This year, words almost fail us in noting the continuing dedication of the brave Americans in uniform who do their duty without complaint. So this year, we are moved to borrow some of the most famous words in the English language.

Because they were written by a master, these words have never been equaled in capturing the spirit and courage of all patriotic warriors, even if they were written about men who were the forebears of our allies today. These immortal sentences do something else, too: They anticipate a day of future remembrance, a Memorial Day if you will, when brave deeds are remembered with pride. We offer them today as our tribute.

As told by William Shakespeare in his play "Henry V," we join the heavily outnumbered English army in its camp facing the French force before the battle of Agincourt.

Enter the KING

WESTMORELAND

O that we now had here

But one ten thousand of those men in England

That do no work today!

KING HENRY V

What's he that wishes so?

My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin:

If we are mark'd to die, we are enow

To do our country loss; and if to live,

The fewer men, the greater share of honour.

God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.

By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,

Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;

It yearns me not if men my garments wear;

Such outward things dwell not in my desires.

But if it be a sin to covet honour,

I am the most offending soul alive.

No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:

God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour

As one man more, methinks, would share from me

For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!

Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,

That he which hath no stomach to this fight,

Let him depart; his passport shall be made

And crowns for convoy put into his purse:

We would not die in that man's company

That fears his fellowship to die with us.

This day is called the Feast of Crispian:

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,

Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,

And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

He that shall live this day, and see old age,

Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,

And say, 'Tomorrow is Saint Crispian.'

Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,

And say, 'These wounds I had on Crispin's day.'

Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,

But he'll remember with advantages

What feats he did that day. Then shall our names.

Familiar in his mouth as household words,

Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,

Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,

Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.

This story shall the good man teach his son;

And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,

From this day to the ending of the world,

But we in it shall be remember'd;

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he today that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,

This day shall gentle his condition:

And gentlemen in England now a-bed

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.