Hallowed Ground

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? ’T is 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? ’T is 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.