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And the masts, with all their rigging,
Fell slowly, one by one,
As a sea-mist in the sun!
And the people who saw this marvel
Each said unto his friend, That this was the mould of their vessel,
And thus her tragic end.
And the pastor of the village
That, to quiet their troubled spirits,
THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS.
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.
Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe, and
Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions,
Holding their breath, had watched, in grim
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 its 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.
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.