THE PHANTOM SHIP. IN Mather's Magnalia Christi, A ship sailed from New Haven, Were heavy with good men's prayers. " "O Lord! if it be thy pleasure 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 :It was in the month of June, An hour before the sunset Of a windy afternoon, When, steadily steering landward, And they knew it was Lamberton, Master, Who sailed so long ago. On she came, with a cloud of canvas, The faces of the crew. Then fell her straining topmasts, And her sails were loosened and lifted, And the masts, with all their rigging, And the hulk dilated and vanished, And the people who saw this marvel That this was the mould of their vessel, And the pastor of the village THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS. A MIST was driving down the British Channel, And through the window-panes, on floor and panel, It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon, And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe, and Dover To see the French war-steamers speeding over, Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions, Holding their breath, had watched, in grim defiance, 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 The long line of the coast, 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, HAUNTED HOUSES. ALL houses wherein men have lived and died 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; From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands, The spirit-world around this world of sense Our little lives are kept in equipoise And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud So from the world of spirits there descends IN THE CHURCHYARD AT CAMBRIDGE. IN the village churchyard she lies, Dust is in her beautiful eyes, No more she breathes, nor feels, nor stirs; Lies a slave to attend the dead, But their dust is white as hers. Was she a lady of high degree, 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; At the rude question we have asked; By those who are sleeping at her side. To find her failings, faults, and errors? THE EMPEROR'S BIRD'S-NEST. ONCE the Emperor Charles of Spain, Some old frontier town of Flanders. Up and down the dreary camp, In great boots of Spanish leather, Striding with a measured tramp, These Hidalgos, dull and damp, Cursed the Frenchmen, cursed the weather. Thus as to and fro they went, Over upland and through hollow, Giving their impatience vent, Yes, it was a swallow's nest, Built of clay and hair of horses, Mane, or tail, or dragoon's crest, Found on hedge-rows east and west, After skirmish of the forces. Then an old Hidalgo said, As he twirled his gray mustachio, Hearing his imperial name Coupled with those words of malice, Half in anger, half in shame, Forth the great campaigner came Slowly from his canvas palace. "Let no hand the bird molest," 'Tis the wife of some deserter!" |