wouldst thou rest
  Awhile from tumult and the frauds of men,
  These old and friendly solitudes invite
  Thy visit.  They, while yet the forest trees
  Were young upon the unviolated earth,
  And yet the moss-stains on the rock were new,
  Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

* * * * *

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? 
  ’Tis 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.