A

Cinque Ports.

THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS.

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 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 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 had 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'erhead;
Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated

That a great man was dead.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Clapham.

ODE

ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY.

A

H me! those old familiar bounds!

That classic house, those classic grounds My pensive thought recalls!

What tender urchins now confine,
What little captives now repine,
Within yon irksome walls!

Ay, that's the very house! I know
Its ugly windows, ten a-row!
Its chimneys in the rear!

And there's the iron rod so high,

That drew the thunder from the sky

And turned our table-beer!

There I was birched! there I was bred!

There like a little Adam fed

From Learning's woful tree! The weary tasks I used to con! The hopeless leaves I wept upon! Most fruitless leaves to me!

The summoned class! - the awful bow!
I wonder who is master now

And wholesome anguish sheds!

How many ushers now employs,
How many maids to see the boys
Have nothing in their heads!

And Mrs. S***? - Doth she abet
(Like Pallas in the parlor) yet
Some favored two or three,
The little Crichtons of the hour,
Her muffin-medals that devour,
And swill her prize - Bohea?

Ay, there's the playground! there's the lime,
Beneath whose shade in summer's prime
So wildly I have read!

Who sits there now, and skims the cream
Of young Romance, and weaves a dream
Of love and cottage-bread?

Who struts the Randall of the walk?
Who models tiny heads in chalk ?

Who scoops the light canoe?
What early genius buds apace?

Where's Poynter? Harris? Bowers? Chase? Hal Baylis ? blithe Carew?

Alack! they're gone a thousand ways!

And some are serving in "the Greys,"
And some have perished young!

Jack Harris weds his second wife;
Hal Baylis drives the wane of life;
And blithe Carew is hung!

Grave Bowers teaches A B C

To savages at Owhyee;

Poor Chase is with the worms!
All, all are gone, - the olden breed!
New crops of mushroom boys succeed,
"And push us from our forms!"

Lo where they scramble forth, and shout, And leap, and skip, and mob about,

At play where we have played!

Some hop, some run (some fall), some twine
Their crony arms; some in the shine,
And some are in the shade!

Lo! there what mixed conditions run:
The orphan lad; the widow's son;
And fortune's favored care,
The wealthy born, for whom she hath
Macadamized the future path,

The nabob's pampered heir!

Some brightly starred, some evil born;
For honor some, and some for scorn;
For fair or foul renown!

Good, bad, indifferent, none may lack!
Look, here's a White, and there's a Black!
And there's a Creole brown!

Some laugh and sing, some mope and weep, And wish their frugal sires would keep

Their only sons at home;