Must I not hear what thou hearest not,
Troubling the air of this sunny spot?
Is there not something to none but me
Told by the rustling of every tree?
Song hath been here—with its flow of thought,
Love—with its passionate visions fraught;
Death—breathing stillness and sadness round—
And is it not—is it not haunted ground?
Are there no phantoms, but such as come
By night from the darkness that wraps the tomb?—
A sound, a scent, or a whispering breeze
Can summon up mightier far than these!
But I may not linger amidst them here!
Lovely they are, and yet things to fear;
Passing and leaving a weight behind,
And a thrill on the chords of the stricken mind.
Away, away, that my soul may soar,
As a free bird of blue skies once more,
Here from its wing it may never cast
The chains by those Spirits brought back from the past.
Doubt it not—smile not—but go thou, too,
Look on the scenes where thy childhood grew—
Where thou hast prayed at thy mother’s knee,
Where thou hast roved with thy brethren free;
Go thou, when life unto thee is changed,
Friends thou hast loved as thy soul, estranged;
When from the idols thy heart hath made,
Thou hast seen the colors of glory fade;
Oh! painfully then, by the wind’s low sigh,
By the voice of the stream, by the flower-cup’s dye,
By a thousand tokens of sight and sound,
Thou wilt feel thou art treading on hallowed ground.