Another hand thy sword shall wield, W. C. Bryant. CCXI. 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, Yon churchyard's bowers? No; in ourselves their souls exist, What hallows ground where heroes sleep? 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? And murder sullies in Heaven's sight 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 painted face to face, The charging cheer, Though Death's pale horse led 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 man can bless one pile of dust Fair stars! are not your beings pure ? Ye must be Heaven's that make us sure 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 And your high-priesthood shall make earth T. Campbell. THER CCXII. THE EXILE OF ERIN. HERE came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,- "Sad is my fate!" said the heart-broken stranger Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh!' "Erin! my country! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore! But, alas! in a far, foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more! O cruel fate, wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me? They died to defend me! or live to deplore! "Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood? "Yet all its sad recollections suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw ; Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! Land of my forefathers! Erin go bragh! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Erin go bragh!'" T. Campbell. A CCXIII. LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound, Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry! And I'll give thee a silver pound To row us o'er the ferry!" "Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?" "O I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And this, Lord Ullin's daughter. |