1840-50.] GEORGE W. CUTTER, 313 Then first to every sinful shore, That man in darkness trod, Thy bright and speeding pinions bore The beacon words of God. The sage's lamp, the muse's lyre. Thou brought'st o'er ocean's foam ; The stellar light of vestal fire ; The eloquence of Rome. Then music rose in Runic chimes. And the isles of barbarous seas First heard Athenia's words sublime — Thy words, Demosthenes ! And Plato's lore and Sappho's lay. O'er other lands were borne, Where late was heard the wild foray, And savage hunter's horn. Thou flag of truth ! thy folds have stream'd O'er many a field of blood ; And o'er the wreck of empires gleamed, Like the rainbow o'er the flood ; The patriot's eye still turns to thee. And hails thee from afar, As the wanderer of the trackless sea Hath hailed his guiding star. Thou torch of hope, thy blaze shall burn O'er millions yet to be, And flame above the funeral urn Of crimson monarchy ! The world already hails thy light. As the Chaldeans of old, When flashing o'er the clouds of night The star of Bethlehem rolled. Like letters on the Pei'sian's wall. But plainer to be read. Is thy ever bright and burning scroll. That tyrants mark with dread. O'er scepter, throne and diadem Hangs thy portentous glare — Like the sword o'er lost Jerusalem, Suspended in the air. While to the hearth-stone of the hall, "■ And to the cottage hearth. Thou bring'st a daily festival Of nameless, priceless worth ; Thou lightest up the pallid cheek Of the deserted poor, And to the captive, worn and weak, Openest the prison door. 0! ever in thy columns bright. Let truth and virtue blend ! Be ever, ever in the right ! Be ever labor's friend. His strong and honest arm shall be Thy bulwark in distress ; God bless the land of liberty ! God save our country's Press! SONG OF LIGHTNING. Away ! away ! through the sightless air Stretch forth your iron thread ! For I would not dim my sandals fair With the dust ye tamely tread ! Aye, rear it up on its million piers — ♦ Let it circle the world around — And the journey ye make in a hundred years ril clear at a single bound ! Tho' I cannot toil, like the groaning slave Ye have fetter'd with iron skill To ferry you over the boundless wave. Or grind in the noisy mill, Let him sing his giant strength and speed ! Why, a single shaft of mine Would give that monster a flight indeed, To the depths of the ocean's brine ! No ! no ! I'm the spirit of light and love ! To my unseen hand 'tis given To pencil the ambient clouds above And polish the stars of heaven ! I scatter'the golden rays of fire On the horizon far below, And deck the sky where storms expire With my red and dazzling glow.
