THE BEACON.

How broad and bright athwart the wave,

Its steadfast light the Beacon gave!

Far beetling from the headland shore,

The rock behind, the surge before,—

How lone and stern and tempest-sear'd,

Its brow to Heaven the turret rear'd!

Type of the glorious souls that are

The lamps our wandering barks to light,

With storm and cloud round every star,

The Fire-Guides of the Night!

How dreary was that solitude!

Around it scream'd the sea-fowl's brood;

The only sound, amidst the strife

Of wind, and wave, that spoke of life,

Except when Heaven's ghost-stars were pale,

The distant cry from hurrying sail.

From year to year the weeds had grown

O'er walls slow-rotting with the damp;

And, with the weeds, decay'd, alone,

The Warder of the lamp.

But twice in every week from shore

Fuel and food the boatmen bore;

And then so dreary was the scene,

So wild and grim the warder's mien,

So many a darksome legend gave

Awe to that Tadmor of the wave,

That scarce the boat the rock could gain,

Scarce heaved the pannier on the stone,

Than from the rock and from the main,

Th’ unwilling life was gone.

A man he was whom man had driven

To loathe the earth and doubt the heaven;

A tyrant foe ( beloved in youth )

Had call'd the law to crush the truth;

Stripp'd hearth and home, and left to shame

The broken heart — the blacken'd name.

Dark exile from his kindred, then,

He hail'd the rock, the lonely wild:

Upon the man at war with men

The frown of Nature smiled.

But suns on suns had roll'd away;

The frame was bow'd, the locks were grey:

And the eternal sea and sky

Seem'd one still death to that dead eye;

And Terror, like a spectre, rose

From the dull tomb of that repose.

No sight, no sound, of human-kind;

The hours, like drops upon the stone!

What countless phantoms man may find

In that dark word — “ALONE!”

Dreams of blue Heaven and Hope can dwell

With Thraldom in its narrowest cell;

The airy mind may pierce the bars,

Elude the chain, and hail the stars:

Canst thou no drearier dungeon guess

In space, when space is loneliness?

The body's freedom profits none,

The heart desires an equal scope;

All nature is a gaol to one

Who knows nor love nor hope!

One day, all summer in the sky,

A happy crew came gliding by,

With songs of mirth, and looks of glee —

A human sunbeam o'er the sea!

“O Warder of the Beacon,” cried

A noble youth, the helm beside,

“This summer-day how canst thou bear

To guard thy smileless rock alone,

And through the hum of Nature hear

No heart-beat, save thine own?”

“I cannot bear to live alone,

To hear no heart-heat, save my own;

Each moment, on this crowded earth,

The joy-bells ring some new-born birth;

Can ye not spare one form — but one,

The lowest — least beneath the sun,

To make the morning musical

With welcome from a human sound?”

“Nay,” spake the youth,— “and is that all?

Thy comrade shall be found.”

The boat sail'd on, and o'er the main

The awe of silence closed again;

But in the wassail hours of night,

When goblets go their rounds of light,

And in the dance, and by the side

Of her, yon moon shall mark his bride,

Before that Child of Pleasure rose,

The lonely rock — the lonelier one,

A haunting spectre — till he knows

The human wish is won!

Low-murmuring round the turret's base

Wave glides on wave its gentle chase;

Lone on the rock, the warder hears

The oar's faint music — hark! it nears —

It gains the rock; the rower's hand

Aids a gray, time-worn form to land.

“Behold the comrade sent to thee!”

He said — then went. And in that place

The Twain were left; and Misery

And Guilt stood face to face!

Yes, face to face once more array'd,

Stood the Betrayer — the Betray'd!

Oh, how through all those gloomy years,

When Guilt revolves what Conscience fears,

Had that wrong'd victim breathed the vow

That if but face to face — And now,

There, face to face with him he stood,

By the great sea, on that wild steep;

Around, the voiceless Solitude,

Below, the funeral Deep!

They gazed — the Injurer's face grew pale —

Pale writhe the lips, the murmurs fail,

And thrice he strives to speak — in vain!

The sun looks blood-red on the main,

The boat glides, waning less and less —

No Law lives in the wilderness,

Except Revenge — man's first and last!

Those wrongs — that wretch — could they forgive?

All that could sweeten life was past;

Yet, oh, how sweet to live!

He gazed before, he glanced behind;

There, o'er the steep rock seems to wind

The devious, scarce-seen path, a snake

In slime and sloth might, labouring, make.

With a wild cry he springs;— he crawls;

Crag upon crag he clears;— and falls

Breathless and mute; and o'er him stands,

Pale as himself, the chasing foe —

Mercy! what mean those clasped hands,

Those lips that tremble so?

“Thou hast cursed my life, my wealth despoil'd;

My hearth “is cold, my name is soil'd;

The wreck of what was Man, I stand

‘ Mid the lone sea and desert land!

Well, I forgive thee all; but be

A human voice and face to me!

O stay — O stay — and let me yet

One thing, that speaks man's language, know!—

The waste hath taught me to forget

That earth once held a foe!”

O Heaven! methinks, from thy soft skies,

Look'd tearful down the angel-eyes;

Back to those walls to mark them go,

Hand clasp'd in hand — the Foe and Foe!

And when the sun sunk slowly there,

Low knelt the prayerless man in prayer.

He knelt, no more the lonely one;

Within, secure, a comrade sleeps;

That sun shall not go down upon

A desert in the deeps.

He knelt — the man who half till then

Forgot his God in loathing men,—

He knelt, and pray'd that God to spare

The Foe to grow the Brother there;

And, reconciled by Love to Heaven,

Forgiving — was he not forgiven?

“Yes, man for man thou didst create;

Man's wrongs, man's blessings can atone!

To learn how Love can spring from Hate —

Go, Hate,— and live alone.”