Ode to the Lighthouse at Malta

The World in dreary darkness sleeps profound,—   
  The storm-clouds hurry on, by hoarse winds driven,   
And night’s dull shades and spectral mists confound   
  Earth, sea, and heaven!   
 
King of surrounding chaos! thy dim form           
  Rises with fiery crown upon thy brow,   
To scatter light and peace amid the storm,   
  And life bestow.   
 
In vain the sea with thundering waves may peal   
  And burst beneath thy feet in giant sport,           
Till the white foam in snowy clouds conceal   
  The sheltering port.   
 
Thy flaming tongue proclaims—“Behold the shore!”   
  And voiceless hails the weary pilot back,   
Whose watchful eyes, like worshippers, explore           
  Thy shining track.   
 
Now silent night a gorgeous mantle wears,   
  By sportive winds the clouds are scattered far,   
And lo! with starry train the moon appears   
  In circling car.           
 
While the pale mist that thy tall brow enshrouds   
  In vain would veil thy diadem from sight,   
Whose form colossal seems to touch the clouds   
  With starlike light.   
 
Ocean’s perfidious waves may calmly sleep,           
  Yet hide sharp rocks—the cliff false signs display:   
And luring lights, far flashing o’er the deep,   
  The ship betray.   
 
But thou, whose splendor dims each lesser beam,   
  Whose firm, unmoved position might declare           
Thy throne a monarch’s—like the north-star’s gleam,   
  Reveals each snare.   
 
So Reason’s steady torch, with light as pure,   
  Dispels the gloom when stormy passions rise,   
Or Fortune’s cheating phantoms would obscure           
  The soul’s dim eyes!   
 
Since I am cast by adverse fortunes here,   
  Where thou presidest o’er this scanty soil,   
And bounteous heaven a shelter grants to cheer   
  My spirit’s toil;           
 
Frequent I turn to thee, with homage mute,   
  Ere yet each troubled thought is calmed in sleep,   
And still thy gem-like brow my eyes salute   
  Above the deep.   
 
How many now may gaze on this sea-shore,           
  Alas! like me, as exiles doomed to roam!   
Some who perchance would greet a wife once more,   
  Or children’s home;   
 
Wanderers, by poverty or despots driven   
  To seek a refuge, as I do, afar,           
Here find, at last, the sign of welcome given,—   
  A hospitable star!   
 
And still to guide the barque it calmly shines,—   
  The barque that from my native land oft bears   
Tidings of bitter griefs, and mournful lines           
  Written with tears.   
 
When first thy vision flashed upon my eyes,   
  And all its dazzling glory I beheld,   
Oh, how my heart, long used to miseries,   
  With rapture swelled!           
 
Inhospitable Latium’s shores were lost,   
  And, as amid the threatening waves we steered,   
When near to dangerous shoals, by tempests tost,   
  Thy light appeared.   
 
No saints the fickle mariners then praised,           
  But vows and prayers forgot they with the night;   
While from the silent gloom the cry was raised,—   
  “Malta in sight!”   
 
And thou wert like a sainted image crowned,   
  Whose forehead bears a shower of golden rays,           
Which pilgrims, seeking health and peace, surround   
  With holy praise.   
 
Never may I forget thee! One alone   
  Of cherished objects shall with thee aspire,   
King of the night! to match thy lofty throne           
  And friendly fire.   
 
That vision still with sparkling light appears   
  In the sun’s dazzling beams at matin hour,   
And is the golden angel memory rears   
  On Cordova’s proud tower!