As the steady lenses circle With a frosty gleam of glass; And the clear bell chimes, And the oil brims over the lip of the burner, Quiet and still at his desk, The lonely light-keeper Holds his vigil.
Lured from afar, The bewildered sea-gull beats Dully against the lantern; Yet he stirs not, lifts not his head From the desk where he reads, Lifts not his eyes to see The chill blind circle of night Watching him through the panes. This is his country’s guardian, The outmost sentry of peace. This is the man, Who gives up all that is lovely in living For the means to live.
Poetry cunningly gilds The life of the Light-Keeper, Held on high in the blackness In the burning kernel of night. The seaman sees and blesses him; The Poet, deep in a sonnet, Numbers his inky fingers Fitly to praise him: Only we behold him, Sitting, patient and stolid, Martyr to a salary.
1870.