Each stroke aright of toil and fight And hope too high wherefore we die, Who holds by Thee hath Heaven in fee And knowledge sure that he endure For to make plain that man's disdain Is but new Beauty's birth, For to possess in loneliness The joy of all the earth. As Thou didst teach all lovers speech, And Life her mystery, So shalt thou rule by every school Who wast or yet the lights were met, A whisper in the Void, Who shalt be sung through planets young When this is clean destroyed. Beyond the bounds our staring rounds Across the pressing dark The children wise of outer skies Look hitherward and mark A light that shifts, a glare that drifts, Not all forlorn, for Thou hast borne Time hath no tide but must abide The servant of Thy will Tide hath no time, for to Thy rhyme Oh, 'twas certes, at Thy decrees We fashioned Heaven and Hell! Pure Wisdom hath no certain path Thou art the Voice to kingly boys A veil to draw twixt God His law A shadow kind to dumb and blind A sum to trick th' arithmetic, Too base, of leaguing odds, O Charity, all patiently Abiding wrack and scaith! O Faith, that meets ten thousand cheats, Yet drops no jot of faith! Devil and brute Thou dost transmute Who art in sooth that utter Truth Thy face is far from this our war— I may not find Thee breathed and kind, Yet may I look with heart unshook Yet may I hear with equal ear Yet set my lance above mischance, Oh, hit or miss, how little 'tis, My Lady is not there! MANY INVENTIONS. THE DISTURBER OF TRAFFIC. From the wheel and the drift of Things Deliver us, good Lord, And we will meet the wrath of kings, Lay not Thy toil before our eyes, Lest we should feel the straining skies A veil 'twixt us and Thee, dread Lord, A veil 'twixt us and Thee: Lest we should hear too clear, too clear, And unto madness see! Miriam Cohen. If THE Brothers of the Trinity order that none unconnected with their service shall be found in or on one of their Lights during the hours of darkness; but their servants can be led to think otherwise. you are fair-spoken and take an interest in their duties, they will allow you to sit with them through the long night and help to scare the ships into midchannel. Of the English south-coast Lights, that of St. Cecilia-under-the-Cliff is the most powerful, for it guards a very foggy coast. When the sea-mist Copyright, 1891, by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. veils all, St. Cecilia turns a hooded head to the sea and sings a song of two words once every minute. From the land that song resembles the bellowing of a brazen bull; but off-shore they understand, and the steamers grunt gratefully in answer. Fenwick, who was on duty one night, lent me a pair of black glass spectacles, without which no man can look at the Light unblinded, and busied himself in last touches to the lenses before twilight fell. The width of the English Channel beneath us, lay as smooth and as many-coloured as the inside of an oyster shell. A little Sunderland cargo-boat had made her signal to Lloyd's Agency, half a mile up the coast, and was lumbering down to the sunset; her wake lying white behind her. One star came out over the cliffs, the waters turned lead-colour, and St. Cecilia's Light shot out across the sea in eight long pencils that wheeled slowly from right to left, melted into one beam of solid light laid down directly in front of the tower, dissolved again into eight, and passed away. The light-frame of the thousand lenses circled on its rollers, and the compressed-air engine that drove it hummed like a bluebottle under a glass. The hand of the indicator on the wall pulsed from mark to mark. Eight pulsebeats timed one half-revolution of the Light; neither more nor less. Fenwick checked the first few revolutions carefully; he opened the engine's feed-pipe a trifle, |