The distant lighthouse hears, and with his flaming signal

Answers you, passing the watchword on, O Bells of Lynn !

And down the darkening coast run the tumultuous surges,

And clap their hands, and shout to you, O Bells of Lynn !

Till from the shuddering sea, with your wild incantations,

Ye summon up the spectral moon, O Bells of Lynn !

And startled at the sight, like the weird woman of Endor,

Ye cry aloud, and then are still, O Bells of Lynn !

THE HANGING OF THE CRANE.

I.

HE lights are out, and gone are all the guests

That thronging came with merriment and jests

To celebrate the Hanging of the Crane In the new house, into the night are

gone;

But still the fire upon the hearth burns on, And I alone remain.

O fortunate, O happy day,

When a new household finds its place Among the myriad homes of earth, Like a new star just sprung to birth, And rolled on its harmonious way Into the boundless realms of space!

So said the guests in speech and song,
As in the chimney, burning bright,
We hung the iron crane to-night,
And merry was the feast and long.

II.

And now I sit and muse on what may be, And in my vision see, or seem to see, Through floating vapors interfused with light,

Shapes indeterminate, that gleam and

fade,

As shadows passing into deeper shade
Sink and elude the sight.

For two alone, there in the hall,
Is spread the table round and small;
Upon the polished silver shine
The evening lamps, but, more divine,
The light of love shines over all;
Of love, that says not mine and thine,
But ours, for ours is thine and mine.

They want no guests, to come between Their tender glances like a screen, And tell them tales of land and sea, And whatsoever may betide

The great, forgotten world outside; They want no guests; they needs must be

Each other's own best company.

III.

The picture fades; as at a village fair
A showman's views, dissolving into air,
Again appear transfigured on the

screen,

So in my fancy this; and now once more, In part transfigured, through the open door

Appears the selfsame scene.

Seated, I see the two again,

But not alone; they entertain
A little angel unaware,

With face as round as is the moon,
A royal guest with flaxen hair,
Who, throned upon his lofty chair,
Drums on the table with his spoon,
Then drops it careless on the floor,
To grasp at things unseen before.

Are these celestial manners? these
The ways that win, the arts that please?
Ah yes; consider well the guest,
And whatsoe'er he does seems best;
He ruleth by the right divine

Of helplessness, so lately born

In purple chambers of the morn,
As sovereign over thee and thine.
He speaketh not; and yet there lies
A conversation in his eyes;

The golden silence of the Greek,
The gravest wisdom of the wise,
Not spoken in language, but in looks
More legible than printed books,
As if he could but would not speak.
And now, O monarch absolute,

Thy power is put to proof; for, lo!
Resistless, fathomless, and slow,
The nurse comes rustling like the sea,
And pushes back thy chair and thee,
And so good night to King Canute.

IV.

As one who walking in a forest sees
A lovely landscape through the parted

trees,

Then sees it not, for boughs that inter

vene;

Or as we see the moon sometimes revealed Through drifting clouds, and then again. concealed,

So I behold the scene.