THREE months at sea, and one on shore; Three months at sea—yet not afloat j Around our home the breakers roar, Yet own we neither ship nor boat.

Rock-based, amid the swirl of foam, The lighthouse stands—it is our home.

Three months at sea—a dreary time— The ship gees gaily on its way; Now and again a mellow chime Comes to us through the dash of spray.

The ship will reach the nether zone While we still pace the lighthouse lone.

While we still pace, and hear the sound That comes from yon far village spire, Where wife' and children gather round The cheery board, the crackling fire; Or seaward gaze at dead of night, To watch our slow, revolving light.

The skipper, through the midnight haze, Marks well its gleam, and feels its worth.

" God's blessing on the light !"-he says, But gives it still a wider berth.

And so it shines from sun to sun, A thing to bless and yet to shun.

And when the tempests howl and rave, And driving clouds shut out the day, And o'er the lantern top the wave .

Flies skyward into feathered spray, We laugh, my comrades twain and I, To feel ourselves so warm and dry.

The lighthouse quivers to its base, Yet, snug within, we know no fears ; We know its stones could fearless face Still stouter gales in bygone years.

Thank God, our lot is not amiss, There's many a life far worse than this..