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

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 em

brasure,

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.

HAUNTED HOUSES.

ALL houses wherein men have lived and died Are haunted houses. Through the open doors The harmless phantoms on their errands glide, With feet that make no sound upon the floors.

We meet them at the door-way, on the stair, Along the passages they come and go, Impalpable impressions on the air,

A sense of something moving to and fro.

There are more guests at table, than the hosts
Invited; the illuminated hall

Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,
As silent as the pictures on the wall.