Hallowed Ground

What’s hallowed ground? Has earth a clodIts Maker meant not should be trodBy man, the image of his God,Erect and free,Unscourged by superstition’s rodTo bow the knee?

That’s hallowed ground—where mourned and missedThe lips repose our love has kissed;—But where’s their memory’s mansion? Is’tYon churchyard’s bowers?No! in ourselves their souls exist,A part of ours.

A kiss can consecrate the groundWhere 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 toldRun molten still in memory’s mould;And will not cool,Until the heart itself be coldIn Lethe’s pool.

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

But strew his ashes to the windWhose sword or voice has served mankind—And is he dead, whose glorious mindLifts 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 sightThe sword he draws:—What can alone ennoble fight?A noble cause!

Give that! and welcome war to braceHer drums! and rend Heaven’s reeking space!The colours 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 kneelTo Heaven!—but Heaven rebukes my zeal!The cause of Truth and Human weal,O God above!Transfer it from the sword’s appealTo Peace and Love.

Peace, Love! the cherubim that joinTheir spread wings o’er Devotion’s shrine—Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine,Where they are not—The heart alone can make divineReligion’s spot.

To incantations dost thou trust,And pompous rites in domes august?See mouldering stones and metal’s rustBelie the vaunt,That man can bless one pile of dustWith chime or chaunt.

The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man!Thy temples—creeds themselves grow wan!But there’s a dome of nobler span,A temple givenThy 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 revealingThe harmonious spheresMake music, though unheard their pealingBy mortal ears.

Fair stars! are not your beings pure?Can sin, can death your worlds obscure?Else why so swell the thoughts at yourAspect above?Ye must be Heaven’s that make us sureOf heavenly love!

And in your harmony sublimeI read the doom of distant time;That man’s regenerate soul from crimeShall yet be drawn,And reason on his mortal climeImmortal dawn.

What’s hallowed ground? ’Tis what gives birthTo sacred thoughts in souls of worth!—Peace! Independence! Truth! go forthEarth’s compass round;And your high priesthood shall make earthAll hallowed ground.