'Tis done! the flame of hate no longer burns: O! 't was a deed of Murder's deepest grain! A friend long true, a once fond lover fell! Unhappy youth! while yon pale crescent glows To watch on silent Nature's deep repose, Thy sleepless spirit, breathing from the tomb, Foretells my fate, and summons me to come! Once more I see thy sheeted spectre stand, Roll the dim eye, and wave the paly hand! Soon may this fluttering spark of vital flame Forsake its languid melancholy frame ! Soon may these eyes their trembling lustre close, Welcome the dreamless night of long repose! Soon may this woe-worn spirit seek the bourn Where, lulled to slumber, Grief forgets to mourn!" HALLOWED GROUND. WHAT'S hallowed ground? Has earth a clod Unscourged by Superstition's rod To bow the knee? That's hallowed ground-where, mourned and missed, 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, up to Heaven! And For time makes all but true love old; 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 Or Genii twine beneath the deep 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 't death to fall for Freedom's right? What can alone ennoble fight? 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 Transfer it from the sword's appeal Peace, Love the cherubim, that join The heart alone can make divine Religion's spot. To incantations dost thou trust, That men can bless one pile of dust The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man! A temple given Thy faith, that bigots dare not banspace is Heaven! Its Its roof star-pictured Nature's ceiling, The harmonious spheres Make music, though unheard their pealing Fair stars! are not your beings pure? Ye must be Heavens that make us sure Of heavenly love! And in your harmony sublime That man's regenerate soul from crime And reason on his mortal clime Immortal dawn. What's hallowed ground? 'Tis what gives birth And your high priesthood shall make earth SONG. WITHDRAW not yet those lips and fingers, Farewell. And death seems in the word Time, whilst I gaze upon thy sweetness, |