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...