THE TORCH OF LIBERTY

I saw it all in Fancy's glass —

Herself, the fair, the wild magician, Who bids this splendid day-dreain pass, And named each gliding apparition.

"T was like a torch-race — such as they

Of Greece perform'd, in ages gone, When the fleet youths, in long array, Pass'd the bright torch triumphant on.

I saw th' expectant nations stand,

To catch the coming flame in turr;

I saw, from ready hand to hand,

The clear, though struggling, glory burn.

And, oh, their joy, as it came near,

'T was, in itself, a joy to see; While Fancy whisper'd in my ear, "That torch they pass is Liberty!"

And each, as she received the flame,
Lighted her altar with its ray;
Then, smiling, to the next who came,
Speeded it on its sparkling way.

From Albion first, whose ancient shrine
Was furnish'd with the fire already,
Columbia caught the boon divine,

And lit a flame, like Albion's, steady

The splendid gift then Gallia took,
And, like a wild Bacchante, raising
The brand aloft, its sparkles shook,

As she would set the world a-blazing!

Thus kindling wild, so fierce and high
Her altar blazed into the air,

That Albion, to that fire too nigh,
Shrunk back, and shudder'd at its glare!

Next, Spain, so new was light to her,
Leap'd at the torch - but, ere the spark
That fell upon her shrine could stir,

'T was quench'd — and all again was dark.

Yet, no - not quench'd — a treasure, worth

So much to mortals, rarely dies: Again her living light look'd forth, And shone, a beacon, in all eyes.

Who next received the flame? alas,
Unworthy Naples shame of shames,
That ever through such hands should pass
That brightest of all earthly flames!

Scarce had her fingers touch'd the torch,
When, frighted by the sparks it shed,

Nor waiting even to feel the scorch,
She dropp'd it to the earth — and fled.

And fall'n it might have long remain'd;

But Greece, who saw her moment now, Caught up the prize, though prostrate, stain'd, And waved it round her beauteous brow

And Fancy bade me mark where, o'er
Her altar, as its flame ascended,
Fair, laurell'd spirits seem'd to soar,

Who thus in song their voices blended:

"Shine, shine for ever, glorious Flame,
Divinest gift of Gods to men!
From Greece thy earliest splendor came,
To Greece thy ray returns again.

"Take, Freedom, take thy radiant round,
When dimm'd, revive, when lost, return,
Till not a shrine through earth be found,
On which thy glories shall not burn!"

THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW

THIS world is all a fleeting show,

For man's illusion given;

The smiles of Joy, the tears of Woe,

Deceitful shine, deceitful flow

There's nothing true, but Heaven!

And false the light on Glory's plume,
As fading hues of Even;

And Love and Hope, and Beauty's bloom,
Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb

There's nothing bright, but Heaven.

Poor wand'rers of a stormy day!
From wave to wave we 're driven,
And Fancy's flash, and Reason's ray,
Serve but to light the troubled way
There's nothing calm, but Heaven!

OH, TEACH ME TO LOVE THEE.

On, teach me to love Thee, to feel what thou art,
Till, fill'd with the one sacred image, my heart
Shall all other passions disown;

Like some pure temple, that shines apart,
Reserved for Thy worship alone.

In joy and in sorrow, through praise and through blame Thus still let me, living and dying the same,

In Thy service bloom and decay ·

Like some lone altar, whose votive flame

In holiness wasteth away.

Though born in this desert, and doom'd by my birth To pain and affliction, to darkness and dearth,

On Thee let my spirit rely

Like some rude dial, that, fix'd on earth,

Still looks for its light from the skv

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WEEP NOT FOR THOSE.

WEFP not for those whom the veil of the tomb,
In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes,
Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom,

Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies. Death chill'd the fair fountain, ere sorrow had stain'd it "T was frozen in all the pure light of its course, And but sleeps till the sunshine of Heaven has unchain'd it,

To water that Eden where first was its source. Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb,

In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes, Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom, Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.

Mourn not for her, the young Bride of the Vale,
Our gayest and loveliest, lost to us now,

Erc life's early lustre had time to grow pale,

And the garland of Love was yet fresh on her brow. Oh, then was her moment, dear spirit for flying

From this gloomy world, while its gloom was unknown

And the wild hymns she warbled so sweetly, in dying,
Were echoed in Heaven by lips like her own.
Weep not for her

in her spring-time she flew To that land where the wings of the soul are unfurl'd And now, like a star beyond evening's cold dew, Looks radiantly down on the tears of this world.