Lift up thy torch, O Goddess, grand and fair!
Let its light stream across the waiting seas
As banners float upon the yielding breeze
From the king’s tent, his presence to declare.
And as his heralds haste to do their share,
Shouting his praise and sounding his decrees,
So let the waves in loftiest symphonies
Proclaim thy glory to the listening air!
Thou star-crowned one, the nations watch for thee,
For thee the patient earth has waited long—
To thee her toiling millions stretch their hands
From the far hills and o’er the rolling sea.
Lift up thy torch, O beautiful and strong,
A beacon-light to earth’s remotest lands.
O. W. H.
(August 29, 1809.)
“How shall I crown this child?” fair Summer cried.
“May wasted all her violets long ago;
No longer on the hills June’s roses glow,
Flushing with tender bloom the pastures wide.
My stately lilies one by one have died:
The clematis is but a ghost—and lo!
In the fair meadow-lands no daisies blow;
How shall I crown this Summer child?” she sighed.
Then quickly smiled. “For him, for him,” she said,
“On every hill my golden-rod shall flame,
Token of all my prescient soul foretells.
His shall be golden song and golden fame—
Long golden years with love and honor wed—
And crowns, at last, of silver immortelles!”
GIFTS FOR THE KING
(H. W. L., February 27th)
What good gifts can we bring to thee, O King,
O royal poet, on this day of days?
No golden crown, for thou art crowned with bays;
No jewelled sceptre, and no signet ring,
O’er distant realms far-flashing rays to fling;
For well we know thy beckoning finger sways
A mightier empire, and the world obeys.
No lute, for thou hast only need to sing;
No rare perfumes, for thy pure life makes sweet
The air about thee, even as when the rose
Swings its bright censer down the garden-path.
Love drops its fragrant lilies at thy feet;
Fame breathes thy name to each sweet wind that blows.
What can we bring to him who all things hath?
RECOGNITION
(H. W. L.)