At morn the venders in the minster's shade, Where mart and temple so benignly meet. Of Holland whispered then the sullen barge, The quaint arcades of traffic's feudal range, The diamond casements and the moated grange, The oaken effigies of buried earls, A window blazoned with armorial crest, Here William's castle frowns upon the tide; Once more we sought the parapet, to gaze, And mark the hoar-frost glint along the dales; Or, through the wind-cleft vistas of the haze, Welcome afar the mountain-ridge of Wales. Ah, what a respite from the onward surge Anonymous. Chillington. INSCRIPTION FOR A STONE ERECTED AT THE SOWING OF A GROVE OF OAKS AT CHIL LINGTON, THE SEAT OF T. GIFFORD, ESQ., 1790. THER stones the era tell OTHER When some feeble mortal fell; I stand here to date the birth Of these hardy sons of earth. Which shall longest brave the sky, Pass an age or two away, I must moulder and decay; But the years that crumble me Cherish honor, virtue, truth, Stone at heart, and cannot grow. William Cowper. A Cinque Ports. THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS. 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 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, Awaken with its call! 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, 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, Ay, that's the very house! I know 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! I wonder who is master now And wholesome anguish sheds ! |