Duly, as ever on the mountain’s height The peep of morning shed a dawning light; Again, when evening in her sober vest Drew the gray curtain of the fading west; My soul should yield thee willing thanks and praise For the chief blessings of my fairest days: But that were sacrilege: praise is not thine, But His, who gave thee, and preserves thee mine; Else I would say,—and, as I spake, bid fly A captive bird into the boundless sky,— This rising realm adores thee: thou art come From Sparta hither, and art here at home; We feel thy force still active; at this hour Enjoys immunity from priestly power; While conscience, happier than in ancient years, Owns no superior but the God she fears. Propitious Spirit! yet expunge a wrong Thy rights have suffered, and our land, too long; Teach mercy to ten thousand hearts, that share The fears and hopes of a commercial care; Prisons expect the wicked, and were built To bind the lawless, and to punish guilt; But shipwreck, earthquake, battle, fire, and flood Are mighty mischiefs, not to be withstood: And honest merit stands on slippery ground Where covert guile and artifice abound. Let just restraint, for public peace designed, Chain up the wolves and tigers of mankind,— The foe of virtue has no claim to thee,— But let insolvent innocence go free. THE TORCH OF LIBERTY BY THOMAS MOORE I saw it all in Fancy’s glass— Herself, the fair, the wild magician, Who bade this splendid day-dream pass, And named each gilded apparition. ’Twas like a torch-race,—such as they Of Greece performed, in ages gone, When the fleet youths, in long array, Passed the bright torch triumphant on. I saw the expectant nations stand To catch the coming flame in turn; I saw, from ready hand to hand, The clear, though struggling, glory burn. And oh, their joy, as it came near, ’Twas, in itself, a joy to see; While Fancy whispered 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 furnished with the flame already, Columbia caught the boon divine, And lit a flame, like Albion’s, steady. Shine, shine forever, 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 dimmed, revive; when lost, return; Till not a shrine through earth be found On which thy glories shall not burn! HOROLOGE OF LIBERTY ANONYMOUS