22 LINES ON THE EDDYSTONE LIGHTHOUSE. 



The glory that stream'd on the fugitive seem'd 

 A pillar of cloud by day. 



Thus a column I fling on the vessel's wing 



Of shadow deep and wide, 

 Nor sparkles a gem in my diadem 



Whilst others are by to guide. 

 In his pitchy shroud when the thunder cloud 



Hangs heavily o'er the spray, 

 And his pinions droop as about to stoop 



Like an eagle on the prey. 



With a rod of defence I beckon him hence, 



Despite his resistless force, 

 And he looks with a frown on my iron crown 



As he shapes him another course, 



When reeks on my side the buffeting tide, 

 The surge of the turbulent main 



I bethink me how true to his sycophant crew 

 Were the words of the royal Dane. 



1 know no dread when the storm is spread, 

 The gale as its monarch I meet, 



Yet trembles my frame, for I cannot tame 

 The billow that mines my feet. 



Fast fixed is my throne on a desolate stone. 

 While the sounds of the tempest rave ; 



The mariners fear to greet me near 

 For I rise by the seaman's grave. 



In the calm twilight of the summer night, 



To gaze on my glorious face, 

 Moor boat and bark by their beacon mark " 



But they're friends of a summer race. 



Now set is the sail, for the rising gale 



Gives token of peril anew, 

 And I'm left again with my lonely train 



The seal and the white sea-mew. 



And is it not so on Man's path below 



That terror aud doubt infest, 

 Of lights on his way least heeded are they 



That point to his haven of rest. 



Hasiingfiy 1832. W. A. B, 



