THE ROPE WALK.

IN that building long and low,
With its windows all a row,

Like the port-holes of a hulk, Human spiders spin and spin, Backward down their threads so thin, Dropping, each, a hempen bulk.

At the end an open door;
Squares of sunshine on the floor

Light the long and dusky lane ;
And the whirling of a wheel,
Dull and drowsy, makes me feel
All its spokes are in my brain.

As the spinners to the end
Downward go and re-ascend,

Gleam the long threads in the sun; While within this brain of mine Cobwebs brighter and more fine

By the busy wheel are spun.

Two fair maidens in a swing,
Like white doves upon the wing,

First before my vision pass;
Laughing, as their gentle hands
Closely clasp the twisted strands,
At their shadow on the grass.

Then a booth of mountebanks,
With its smell of tan and planks,

And a girl poised high in air
On a cord, in spangled dress,
With a faded loveliness,

And a weary look of care.

THE ROPE WALK.

Then a homestead among farms,
And a woman with bare arms,
Drawing water from a well;
As the bucket mounts apace,
With it mounts her own fair face,
As at some magician's spell.

Then an old man in a tower
Ringing loud the noontide hour,

While the rope coils round and round,
Like a serpent, at his feet,

And again in swift retreat

Almost lifts him from the ground.

Then within a prison-yard,

Faces fixed, and stern, and hard,

Laughter and indecent mirth; Ah! it is the gallows-tree! Breath of Christian charity,

Blow, and sweep it from the earth!

Then a schoolboy, with his kite,
Gleaming in a sky of light,

And an eager, upward look;
Steeds pursued through lane and field:
Fowlers with their snares concealed,
And an angler by a brook.

Ships rejoicing in the breeze,

Wrecks that float o'er unknown seas,

Anchors dragged through faithless sand;

Sea-fog drifting overhead,

And with lessening line and lead

Sailors feeling for the land.

All these scenes do I behold,
These and many left untold,

In that building long and low;
While the wheels go round and round
With a drowsy, dreamy sound,

And the spinners backward go.

327

A MIST was driving down the British Channel,

The day was just begun,

And through the window-panes, on floor and panel, Streamed the red autumn sun.

It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon,
And the white sails of ships;

And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon
Hailed it with feverish lips.

THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS.

Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hythe and Dover,
Were all alert that day,

To see the French war-steamers speeding over,
When the fog cleared away.

Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions,

Their cannon through the night,

Holding their breath, had watched in grim defiance
The sea-coast opposite.

And now they roared at drum-beat from their stations
On every citadel;

Each answering each with morning salutations

That all was well.

And down the coast,

all taking up the burden,

Replied the distant forts,

As if to summon from his sleep the Warden
And Lord of the Cinque Ports.

Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure,

No drum-beat from the wall,

No morning-gun from the black fort's embrasure
Awaken with their call.

No more surveying with an eye impartial

The long line of the coast,

Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field-Marshal

Be seen upon his post.

For in the night, unseen, a single warrior,

In sombre harness mailed,

Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer,

The rampart wall has scaled.

329

He passed into the chamber of the sleeper,
The dark and silent room;

And as he entered, darker grew and deeper
The silence and the gloom.

He did not pause to parley or dissemble,

But smote the Warden hoar;

Ah! what a blow! that made all England tremble, And groan from shore to shore.

Meanwhile, without the surly cannon waited,

The sun rose bright o'erhead;

Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated

That a great man was dead!