Ay, call it holy ground, the soil where first they trod; they have left unstained, what there they found, - freedom to worship god.
The boy stood on the burning deck whence all but him had fled; the flame that lit the battle's wreck, shone round him o'er the dead.
The breaking waves dashed high on a stern and rock-bound coast. And the woods against a stormy sky, their giant branches toss'd.
There is none, in all this cold and hollow world, no fount of deep strong, deathless love, save that within a mother's heart.
Ay, call it holy ground, the soil where first they trod. They have left unstained, what there they found - freedom to worship god.
In the busy haunts of men.
