Wit, learned in the laurel, leaves each wreath

O'er lyric shell or tragic barbiton,—

Though alien gauds be singed,—undesecrate,

The genuine solace of the sacred brow.

Ay, and how pulses flame a patriot-star

Steadfast athwart our country's night of things,

To beacon, would she trust no meteor-blaze,

Athenai from the rock she steers for straight!

O light, light, light, I hail light everywhere,

No matter for the murk that was,—perchance,