And place our trophies where men kneel Transfer it from the sword's appeal To Peace and Love. Peace, Love! the cherubim, that join The heart alone can make divine To incantations dost thou trust, That man can bless one pile of dust 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 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 The Churchyard And in your harmony sublime I read the doom of distant time: That man's regenerate soul from crime And reason on his mortal clime Immortal dawn. 3223 What's hallowed ground? 'Tis what gives birth To sacred thoughts in souls of worth!— Peace! Independence! Truth! go forth And your high-priesthood shall make earth All hallowed ground. Thomas Campbell [1777-1844] THE CHURCHYARD How slowly creeps the hand of Time The hours roll round with patient pace; All moves, but nothing here is swift; The grass grows deep, the green boughs shoot; The earth feels heavenward underfoot; And slowly, piled with scented hay, All stirs, but nothing here is loud: The lark trills soft to earth and skies; And underneath the green graves rest; And through the place, with slow footfalls, With snowy cambric on his breast, The old gray Vicar crawls. And close at hand, to see him come, The boys their forelocks touch meanwhile, And smiles a sleepy smile. Slow as the hand on the clock's face, Laurels and yews make dark the ground; And from the portal, green and dark, He pauses, listening for the chime, The eternal voice of Time. Robert Buchanan [1841-1901] THE OLD CHURCHYARD OF BONCHURCH THE churchyard leans to the sea with its dead,— It leans to the sea with its dead so long. Do they hear, I wonder, the first bird's song, The Old Churchyard of Bonchurch 3225 The high, sweet voice of the west wind, When the second month of the year Puts heart in the earth again? Do they hear, through the glad April weather, Do they think there are none left to love them, Do they hear the note of the cuckoo, The cry of gulls on the wing, The laughter of winds and waters, Do they feel the old land slipping seaward,— With the wind blowing on them from leaward? Do they long for the days to go over, Or love they their night with no moonlight, Do they mumble low, one to another Do they think 'twill be cold when the waters Have they dread of the sea's shining daughters, And play with the young sea-kings? Have they dread of their cold embraces, But their dread or their joy,-it is bootless: They shall pass from the breast of their mother; They shall lie low, dead brother by brother, In a place that is radiant and fruitless; And the folk that sail over their heads In violent weather Shall come down to them, haply, and all They shall lie there, together. Philip Bourke Marston [1850-1887] THE INDIAN BURYING-GROUND In spite of all the learned have said, Not so the ancients of these lands;- And shares again the joyous feast. His imaged birds, and painted bowl, His bow for action ready bent, |