TO THE LIGHTHOUSE ON MALTA

Black night enswathes the mighty world;
The hurricane and cloud confuse
With piling shadows measureless
                    The sky, the sea, the land;

But thou, invisible, lift'st up thy head,
Wearing thy faithful crown of light,
Like some old king of Chaos in the glow
                    That shines for peace and life.

In vain the sea hurls up its peaks
And shrinks to nought beneath thy feet,
Seeking amid its seething foam
                    The refuge of the port.

Thou with thy tongue of flame declare'st
"Here, stand we!" — voiceless, to the pilot who
With pious eyes upon thee hails thy light
                    As his divinity.—

Or night is calm, against its royal robe
The gentle zephyr rustling on its gold and stars
                    Whereon the moon rolls forth!

Then thou, in filmy vapor clothed,
Showest thy mighty beauty forth,
And lift'st thy diadem among the stars.

The sea lies tranquil, and the hiding rocks
And treacherous shoals beneath their shifting gleam
                    Call to the passing ships;

But thou, whose splendor overcomes
All else, —but thou upon thy sturdy throne,—
Thou art the star to warn them of the snare.

Thus Reason's torch amid the raging flames
Of Passion or of Flattery's soft whine,
Before the straight gaze of the soul!

Down from the airy refuge of thy reign
So calm, O rescue me from angry Fate,
And grant thy peaceful hospitality
                    Unto my troubled soul!

Often and often with my cares I've come
To thee for sweet oblivion in thine arms,
Bowing before thee, lifting up mine eyes
                    To thy resplendent brows!

How often, ah! from off the raging seas
I've turned again to thee! With all in absence long
                    From spouse and sons,—

With all the fugitives, the poor, the scourged,
That seek asylum here afar where thou
                    Dost speak with light of welcoming!

Thou art the guiding star to nightly sails
That bear me from afar the news of wrongs
                    In letters writ of tears;

When first mine eyes beheld thee shine
Oh, how my breast upheaved with hopes
                    And happy omens!

From Latium's inhospitable shores
An exile coming tossed by sea and wind,
From out the shoals I first beheld
                    That signaling divine;

The mariners too beholding it on high
Forgetting all their cares and frightened vows
Amid the stormy darkness, murmured fond:
                    "Malta! Malta! We are there!"—

Thou wast the aureole that enshrines
A holy image that the pilgrim seeks
                    Afar for healing comfort!—

Never shall I forget thee, nevermore!
Thy splendor now would I alone exchange,—
Thou unforgettable bright king of night,
                    Beneficent pure flame—

For that fair light and those refulgent stars
That shine reflected in the morning sun
From off the gold Archangel on the dome
                    Of Cordoba's sweet tower!—