sink, Death clutching from the clamorous brine, hope beaconing from the brink, With lifted hands toward the lights that beam but to betray, Because dull Britons fail to think, or hesitate to pay?  No!  With that question a fierce thrill through countless listeners went, And, hoarse with indignation, rings the answer, “Not Content!”

When the Armada neared our coast in days now dubbed as “dark,” Pre-scientific Englishmen, whom no Electric Spark Had witched with its white radiance, yet sped from height to height Of Albion’s long wild sea-coast line the ruddy warning Light.  “Cape beyond Cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire"[1] Reveille shot from sea to sea, from wave-washed shire to shire, Inland, from hill to hill, it flashed wherever English hand Helpful at need in English cause could grip an English brand.  To-day?  Well, round our jutting cliffs, across our hollowing bays Thicker the light-ship beacons flash, the lighthouse lanterns blaze.  From sweep to sweep, from steep to steep, our shores are starred with light, Burning across the briny floods through the black mirk of night, Forth-gleaming like the eyes of Hope, or like the fires of Home, Upon the eager eyes of men far-straining o’er the foam.  Good!  But how greatly less than good to fear, to think, to know That inland England’s less alert against a whelming foe Than when bonfire and beacon flared mere flame of wood and pitch, From Surrey hills to Skiddaw! 
          Science-dowered, serenely rich,
Safe in its snugly sheltered homes, our England lies at ease, Whilst round her cliffs gale-scourged to wrath the tiger-throated seas Thunder in ruthless ravening rage, with rending crash and shock, Through the dull night and blinding drift on leagues of reef and rock.  More furious than the Spaniards they, more fierce, persistent foes, These deep-gorged, pallid, foaming waves.  Yes, bright the beacon glows, Warmly the lighthouse wafts its blaze of welcome o’er the brine; The shore’s hard by, but where the hands to whirl the rescuing line?  To launch the boat?—­to hurl the buoy?  The lighthouse men look out Upon their wreck-borne brethren there, their hearts are soft as stout, But signals will not pierce this dark, shouts rise o’er this fierce roar, Rescue may wait at hand, but—­there’s no cable to the shore!

Content with this?  Nay, callous he whom this stirs not to rage,
Punch pictures, with prophetic pen, a brighter cheerier page,
Which must be turned, and speedily: 
Good Mr. PROSPERO BULL,
Your Ariel is the Electric Sprite, DIBDIN, of pity full
For tempest-tost Poor JACK, descried a Cherub up aloft
Watch-keeping o’er his venturous life.  That symbol, quoted oft,
Must find new form to fit the time.  The Ariel of the Spark
Must watch around our storm-lashed coast in tempest and in dark,
Guardian of homeward-bound Poor JACK, to spread the news of fear,
And tell him, battling with the storm, that rescuing hands, though near,
Are not made helpless in his hour of agonising need,
By ignorance that heeds not, and neglect that fails to heed.