And the ships that came from England, This put the people to praying That the Lord would let them hear What in his greater wisdom He had done with friends so dear. And at last their prayers were answered: Of a windy afternoon, When, steadily steering landward, And they knew it was Lamberton, Master, On she came, with a cloud of canvas, The faces of the crew. Then fell her straining topmasts, And the masts, with all their rigging, And the hulk dilated and vanished, 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 the pastor of the village THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS. Written in October, 1852. The Warden was the Duke of Wellington, who died September 13. The poem was published in the first number of Putnam's Magazine, January, 1853. A MIST was driving down the British Channel, And through the window-panes, on floor and panel, Streamed the red autumn sun. It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon, And, from the frowning rampart, the black can non 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, 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, As if to summon from his sleep the Warden Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure, No morning gun from the black fort's embrasure, No more, surveying with an eye impartial Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field Marshal For in the night, unseen, a single warrior, Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer, He passed into the chamber of the sleeper, And as he entered, darker grew, and deeper, He did not pause to parley or dissemble, Ah! what a blow! that made all England trem ble And groan from shore to shore. Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited, HAUNTED HOUSES. ALL houses wherein men have lived and died We meet them at the doorway, on the stair, A sense of something moving to and fro. There are more guests at table, than the hosts Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts, The stranger at my fireside cannot see The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear; He but perceives what is; while unto me We have no title-deeds to house or lands; From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands, And hold in mortmain still their old estates, The spirit-world around this world of sense A vital breath of more ethereal air, Our little lives are kept in equipoise These perturbations, this perpetual jar Of earthly wants and aspirations high, Come from the influence of an unseen star, An undiscovered planet in our sky. And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of light, Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd Into the realm of mystery and night, So from the world of spirits there descends |