Bliss Carman, et al., eds. The World’s Best Poetry. 1904.
II. FreedomHallowed Ground
Thomas Campbell (17771844)W
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?
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.
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!
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.
’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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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!
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.
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.