The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
 | I, II. |
| III, IV. |
 | V. |
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| VI, VII. |
| VIII, IX. |
| X. |
 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore |  |
229
FABLE III. THE TORCH OF LIBERTY.
I saw it all in Fancy's glass—
Herself, the fair, the wild magician,
Who bid this splendid day-dream pass,
And nam'd each gliding apparition.
Herself, the fair, the wild magician,
Who bid this splendid day-dream pass,
And nam'd each gliding apparition.
'Twas 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.
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 turn;—
I saw, from ready hand to hand,
The clear, though struggling, glory burn.
To catch the coming flame in turn;—
I saw, from ready hand to hand,
The clear, though struggling, glory burn.
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And, oh, their joy, as it came near,
'Twas, in itself, a joy to see;—
While Fancy whisper'd in my ear,
“That torch they pass is Liberty!”
'Twas, in itself, a joy to see;—
While Fancy whisper'd in my ear,
“That torch they pass is Liberty!”
And, each, as she receiv'd the flame,
Lighted her altar with its ray;
Then, smiling, to the next who came,
Speeded it on its sparkling way.
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.
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!
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 blaz'd into the air,
That Albion, to that fire too nigh,
Shrunk back, and shudder'd at its glare!
Her altar blaz'd into the air,
That Albion, to that fire too nigh,
Shrunk back, and shudder'd at its glare!
231
Next, Spain, so new was light to her,
Leap'd at the torch—but, ere the spark
That fell upon her shrine could stir,
'Twas quench'd—and all again was dark.
Leap'd at the torch—but, ere the spark
That fell upon her shrine could stir,
'Twas 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.
So much to mortals, rarely dies:
Again her living light look'd forth,
And shone, a beacon, in all eyes.
Who next receiv'd the flame? alas,
Unworthy Naples—shame of shames,
That ever through such hands should pass
That brightest of all earthly flames!
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 ev'n to feel the scorch,
She dropp'd it to the earth—and fled.
When, frighted by the sparks it shed,
Nor waiting ev'n 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 wav'd it round her beauteous brow.
But Greece, who saw her moment now,
Caught up the prize, though prostrate, stain'd,
And wav'd it round her beauteous brow.
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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:—
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 splendour came,
“To Greece thy ray returns again.
“Divinest gift of Gods to men!
“From Greece thy earliest splendour 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!”
“When dimm'd, revive, when lost, return,
“Till not a shrine through earth be found,
“On which thy glories shall not burn!”
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | |