What's hallowed ground? Has earth a clod Its Maker mean'd not should be trod By man, the image of his God, Erect and free, Unscourged by Superstition's rod.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike th' inevitable hour, The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

But an untimely grave.

He that unburied lies wants not his hearse, For unto him a tomb's the Universe.

Gravestones tell truth scarce forty years.