And at last their

prayers were answered: It was in the month of June, An hour before the sunset

Of a windy afternoon,

When, steadily steering landward,

A ship was seen below, And they knew it was Lamberton, Master,

Who sailed so long ago.

On she came, with a cloud of canvas,

Right against the wind that blew, Until the eye could distinguish

The faces of the crew.

Then fell her straining topmasts,

Hanging tangled in the shrouds,
And her sails were loosened and lifted,

And blown away like clouds.

And the masts, with all their rigging,

Fell slowly, one by one,
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 thus her tragic end.

And the pastor of the village

Gave thanks to God in prayer, 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,

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 saluta

tions,
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.

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