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And the masts, with all their rigging,
As a sea-mist in the sun
And the people who saw this marvel
And thus her tragic end.
And the pastor of the village
That, to quiet their troubled spirits,
He had sent this Ship of Air.
THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS.
A MIST was driving down the British Channel,
Streamed the red autumn sun.
It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon,
Hailed it with feverish lips.
Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe, and
When the fog cleared away.
Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions,
The sea-coast opposite.
And now they roared at drum-beat from their stations On every citadel; Each answering each, with morning salutations,
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,
Awaken with its call!
No more, surveying with an eye impartial
Be seen upon his post!
For in the night, unseen, a single warrior,
The rampart wall has scaled.
He passed into the chamber of the sleeper,
The silence and the gloom.
He did not pause to parley or dissemble,
And groan from shore to shore.
Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited,
That a great man was dead.