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 defi ance, . 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, 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 tremble Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited, Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated That a great man was dead. A' HAUNTED HOUSES LL 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 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 All that has been is visible and clear. We have no title-deeds to house or lands; The spirit-world around this world of sense 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 IN THE CHURCHYARD AT CAMBRIDGE N the village churchyard she lies, IN Dust is in her beautiful eyes, No more she breathes, nor feels, nor stirs ; At her feet and at her head Lies a slave to attend the dead, But their dust is white as hers. Was she a lady of high degree, So much in love with the vanity And foolish pomp of this world of ours? Or was it Christian charity, And lowliness and humility, The richest and rarest of all dowers? Who shall tell us? No one speaks ; By those who are sleeping at her side. Hereafter? - And do you think to look To find her failings, faults, and errors? |