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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 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 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 men can bless one pile of dust
With 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 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.

CAMPBELL.

The Lost Wife.

LONE, by my solitary hearth,

Whence peace hath fled,

And home-like joys, and innocent mirth

Are banished;

Silent and sad, I linger to recall

The memory of all

In thee, dear partner of my cares, I lost;

Cares, shared with thee, more sweet than joys the world can boast.

My home-why did I say my home!

Now have I none,

Unless thou from the grave again couldst come,
Beloved one!

My home was in thy trusting heart,

Where'er thou wert;

My happy home in thy confiding breast, Where my worn spirit refuge found and rest.

I know not if thou wast most fair

And best of womankind;

Or whether earth yet beareth fruits more rare

Of heart and mind;

TO ME, I know, thou wert the fairest,

Kindest, dearest,

That heaven to man in mercy ever gave, And more than man from heaven deserved to have.

Never from thee, sweet wife,

Came word or look awry,

Nor peacock pride, nor sullen fit, nor strife
For mastery:

Calm and controlled thy spirit was, and sure
So to endure:

My friend, protectress, guide, whose gentle will Compelled my good, withholding from me ill.

No art of selfishness

Thy generous nature knew;

Thy life all love, thy bliss the power to bless;
Constant and true,

Content, if to thy lot the world should bring
Enduring suffering;

Unhappy, if permitted but to share

Part of my griefs, wouldst both our burthens bear.

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