The Watcher of the Beacon

LONE is his life who, on a sea-tower blind,
Watcheth all weathers o'er the beacon-light.
Ah! woe to him if, mad with his own mind,
He groweth sick for scenes more sweet and bright;
For round him, in the dreadful winter night,
The snow drifts, and the waves beat, and the wind
Shrieks desolately, while with feeble sight
He readeth some old Scripture left behind
By those who sat before him in that place,
And in their season perish'd, one and all. . . .
Wild raves the wind: the Faces on the wall
Seem phantoms: features dark and dim to trace.
He starteth up — he tottereth— he would fall,
When, lo! the gleam of one Diviner Face!