THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS.
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'er head;
Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated
That a great man was dead.
His cheeks are reddening into deeper smiles,
And shining lids are trembling o'er his long
Lashes, dark as the cypress which waves o'er them,
Half open, from beneath them the clear blue
Laughs out, although in slumber.
MORNING INVITATION TO A CHILD.
107. MORNING INVITATION TO A CHILD.
THE house is a prison, the school-room's a cell;
Leave study and books for the upland and dell;
Lay aside the dull poring, quit home, and quit care;
Sally forth! sally forth! Let us breathe the fresh air!
The sky dons its holiday mantle of blue;
The sun sips his morning refreshment of dew;
Shakes joyously laughing his tresses of light,
And here and there turns his eye piercing and bright;
Then jocund mounts up on his glorious car,
With smiles to the morn,-for he means to go far ;-
While the clouds, that had newly paid court at his levee,
Spread sails to the breeze, and glide off in a bevy.
Tree, and tree-tufted hedge-row, and sparkling between
Dewy meadows enamelled in gold and in
green,
With king-cups and daisies, that all the year please,
Sprays, petals, and leaflets that nod in the breeze,
With carpets, and garlands, and wreaths, deck the way
And tempt the blithe spirit still onward to stray,
Itself its own home;-far away! far away!
The butterflies flutter in pairs round the bower;
The humble-bee sings in each bell of each flower;
The bee hums of heather and breeze-wooing hill,
And forgets in the sunshine his toil and his skill;
The birds carol gladly!-the lark mounts on high;
The swallows on wing make their tune to the eye,
And as birds of good omen that summer loves well,
Ever wheeling weave ever some magical spell.
The hunt is abroad:-hark! the horn sounds its note,
And seems to invite us to regions remote.
The horse in the meadow is stirred by the sound,
And neighing, impatient, o'erleaps the low mound;
Then proud of his speed o'er the champaign he bounds,
To the whoop of the huntsman, and tongue of the hounds ; Then stay not within, for on such a blest day
We can never quit home, while with nature we stray;
108. NIGHT SONG.
THE moon is up, in splendour,
And golden stars attend her;
The heavens are calm and bright;
Trees cast a deepening shadow,
And slowly off the meadow
A mist is rising, silver-white.
Night's curtains now are closing
Round half a world, reposing
In calm and holy trust;
All seems one vast still chamber,
Where weary hearts remember
No more the sorrows of the dust.
From the German of Claudius.
109. THE MERRY COBBLER.
A MERRY cobbler had a stall;
An arch old wag as e'er you knew,
With breeches red, and jerkin blue;
Cheerful at working as at play,
He sung and whistled life away.
When rising morning glads the sky,
Clear as the merry lark on high;
When evening shades the landscape veil,
Late warbling as the nightingale.
Though pence came slow, and trade was ill,
Yet still he sung, and whistled still;
Though patched his garb, and coarse his fare,
He laughed and cast away old care.
LITTLE Calvin, a blue-eyed, fair-haired child, of six summers, was dying, and he bade his father and mother come near the bedside, that he might bid them farewell. "Mother," said he, "will you not go with me?" "Where are you going, my child?" asked his mother. With his eyes fixed upward, he answered, "To Heaven, mother," and in a moment was in the arms of Him who has said, "Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of Heaven."
FROM the rosy western heaven,
Through the tinted mists of even,
Up the purple deeps of twilight,
Slowly sailed a snowy cloud;
Coasting by the golden sky-lands,
Sweeping round the starry islands,
Sailed that barque, until the zenith
Was enveloped in its shroud.
Summers six had come and parted,
Since upon that sea uncharted,
Once before came seraphs, sailing
On a skyward-tending track.
Then a leaf of God's evangel
They had left-a tiny angel
On thy bosom, gentle mother ;-
Now they come to call it back.
All his earthly mission ended,
On his little couch extended,
Lay he, watching with the spirit,
As his azure eye grew dim;
Though by others all unnoted,
Watching where the vessel floated,
And the wooing angels waited,
For he knew they came for him.
Many sweet "good-byes" he told ye,
Close his little arms enfold ye—
Father, brother, pressing near him,
Shutting heaven from his view.
But to thee he clung the nearest,
Thou the fondest, best, and dearest,
As he murmured, "Oh! my mother,
Will not you go with me, too?"
"Where? oh! where, my child?"—"To Heaven!"
Sighed the passing spirit. Even
Caught the cadence of the chorus,
As the angel-barque swept on :
Sailing up the ether slowly,
It has reached the haven holy,
And lies moored within the shadow
Of Jehovah's great white throne.
111, HOME! CHILDHOOD'S HOME!
HOME! childhood's home! though sever'd far,
How oft in fancy's dreams I greet thee;
How oft beneath night's dewy star,
Thy cherish'd forms arise to meet me.
Too transient bliss! from dreams alone
The exile can his solace borrow:
The morning breaks-the spell is gone-
He wakes, and to a world of sorrow.
LADY FLORA HASTINGS.
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