Classic Poem

When thoughtful Contemplation fills
The mind, go, climb the rugged hills,
Down which the crystal-footed rills
In freedom bound;
The mind, all hope, is upward led,
For every spot on which we tread
Is Holy Ground.

As homeward turns the shepherd's flock,
Stand on the firmly-rooted rock,
That trembles 'neath the thunder's shock,
With awe profound;
The spirit erewhile so oppress'd,
Is now the soul's delighted guest—
'T is Holy Ground.

Emerging from the leprous town,
We wander where the mountains frown,
Or where the torrent leapeth down,
With psalmy sound:
Feelings of inspiration steal
Upon the mind—we own—we feel
'T is Holy Ground.

When pondering by the silent shore,
We hear the tortured ocean roar,
Our thoughts beyond its vastness soar,
And all around
Delights—uplifts—expands the mind
Where Beauty ever lives enshrined—
'T is Holy Ground.

Go, thread the Wisdom-haunted Woods,
Where slave of Mammon ne'er intrudes,
Or seek the sylvan solitudes
Where Peace is found;
Contrast their silence with the strife
And folly of a selfish life—
'Tis Holy Ground.

We reverence the marble stone,
That tells us of a spirit flown
To worlds unseen, but not unknown;
This grassy mound,
Each green blade on whose sacred knoll
Begets sweet feelings in the soul,
Is Holy Ground.

Not less so is the wood-clad height,
Seen by broad Day or sombre Night;
Each humble view that meets the sight
Serves to expound
The wholesome truth, that Earth was meant,
Despite Man's peevish discontent,
For Holy Ground.