Still o'er him oblivion's waters lay, Though the stream of life kept flowing; When they spoke of our king, 't was but to say The old man's strength was going. At intervals thus the waves disgorge, A piece of the wreck of the Royal George, He is gone at length-he is laid in the dust, His people's heart is his funeral urn; And should sculptured stone be denied him, There will his name be found, when in turn We lay our heads beside him. HORACE SMITH. 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 pen non, And the white sails of ships; 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 forts' embrazure, Awaken with their call! No more, surveying with an eye impartia. Shall the gaunt figure of the old field-marshal For in the night, unseen, a single warrior, He passed into the chamber of the sleeperThe dark and silent room; And, as he entered, darker grew, and deeper, The silence and the gloom. And, from the frowning rampart, the black He did not pause to parley, or dissemble, 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, Holding their breath, had watched in grim defiance The sea-coast opposite. But smote the warden hoar Ah! what a blow!-that made all England tremble And groan from shore to shore. Meanwhile, without, the suriy cannon waited HENRY WADS worth LongFELLOW It may be so-but this is selfish sorrow To ask such meed A weakness and a wickedness, to borrow From hearts that bleed WHEN I beneath the cold, red earth am sleep- The wailings of to-day, for what to-morrow When the great winds, through leafless for- It were in vain-for time hath long been And the small flowers, their buds and blos- His teachers were the torn heart's wail, soms twining, Burst through that clay— Will there be one still on that spot repining Lost hopes all day? The tyrant and the slave, The street, the factory, the jail, The palace and the grave! Sin met thy brother every where! And is thy brother blamed? When the night shadows, with the ample From passion, danger, doubt, and care, sweeping He no exemption claimed. Of her dark pall, The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm. |