God of the torch, whose soul-illuming flame
Beams brightest radiance o'er the human heart,
Of many a woe the cure,
Of many a joy the source;

To thee I sing, if haply may the Muse
Pour forth the song unblamed from these dull haunts,
Where never beams thy torch
To cheer the sullen scene.

I pour the song to thee, though haply doom'd
Alone and unbeloved to pass my days;
Though doom'd perchance to die
Alone and unbewail'd.

Yet will the lark, albeit in cage enthrall'd,
Send out her voice to greet the morning sun,
As wide his cheerful beams
Light up the landscape round;

When high in heaven she hears the caroling,
The prisoner too begins her morning hymn,
And hails the beam of joy,
Of joy to her denied.

Friend to each better feeling of the soul,
I sing to thee, for many a joy is thine,
And many a Virtue comes
To join thy happy train.

Lured by the splendor of thy sacred torch,
The beacon-light of bliss, young Love draws near
And leads his willing slaves
To wear thy flowery chain.

And chasten'd Friendship comes, whose mildes sway
Shall cheer the hour of age, when fainter burn
The fading flame of Love,
The fading flame of Life.

Parent of every bliss, the busy hand
Of Fancy oft will paint in brightest hues
How calm, how clear, thy torch
Illumes the wintry hour;

Will paint the wearied laborer at that hour,
When friendly darkness yields a pause to toil,
Returning blithely home
To each domestic joy;

Will paint the well-trimm'd fire, the frugal meal
Prepared with fond solicitude to please;
The ruddy children round
Climbing the father's knee.

And oft will Fancy rise above the lot
Of honest Poverty, and think how man
Nor rich, nor poor, enjoys
His best and happiest state;

When toil no longer irksome and constrain'd
By hard necessity, but comes to please,
To vary the still hour
Of tranquil happiness.

Why, Fancy, wilt thou, o'er the lovely scene
Pouring thy vivid hues, why, sorceress bland,
Soothe sad reality
With visionary bliss?

Turn thou thine eyes to where the hallowed light
Of Learning shines; ah, rather lead thy son
Along her mystic paths
To drink the sacred spring.

Lead calmly on along the unvaried path
To solitary Age's drear abode;—
Is it not happiness
That gives the sting to Death?

Well then is he whose unimbitter'd years
Are waning on in lonely listlessness;
If Life hath little joy,
Death hath for him no sting.