And when the wind and storm had done, And none was left to tell the tale. I saw the pomp of day depart- Peace be to those whose graves are made THE INDIAN HUNTER. WHEN the summer harvest was gathered in, Looked down where the valley lay stretched below. He was a stranger there, and all that day And the wolf kept aloof from the hunter's feet, The moon of the harvest grew high and bright, And a mourning voice, and a plunge from shore, When years had passed on, by that still lake side, And 'twas seen, as the waters moved deep and slow, That the hand was still grasping a hunter's bow. BIRDS OF PASSAGE. FLIGHT THE FIRST. .. COME 1 GRU VAN CANTANDO LOR LAI, FACENDO IN AER DI SE LUNGA RIGA.-Dante. THE ROPE-WALK. IN that building long and low, Like the port-holes of a hulk, Light the long and dusky lane; As the spinners to the end Gleam the long threads in the sun; Two fair maidens in a swing, Then a booth of mountebanks, And a weary look of care. 470 Then a homestead among farms, While the rope coils round and round, Like a serpent, at his feet, And again in swift retreat Almost lifts him from the ground. Then within a prison-yard, Faces fixed, and stern, and hard, Laughter and indecent mirth; Breath of Christian charity, Blow, and sweep it from the earth! Then a schoolboy, with his kite, And an eager, upward look; Steeds pursued through lane and field: Ships rejoicing in the breeze, Wrecks that float o'er unknown seas, Anchors dragged through faithless sand; Sea-fog drifting overhead, And with lessening line and lead Sailors feeling for the land. All these scenes do I behold, In that building long and low; And the spinners backward go. THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS. The day was just begun, And through the window-panes, on floor and panel, It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon, And the white sails of ships; And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hythe and Dover, 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 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 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, In sombre harness mailed, 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, But smote the Warden hoar; 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! THE TWO ANGELS. [Inspired by the birth of a child to the writer, and the death of Mrs Maria Lowell, the wife of another American poet, on the same day, at Cambridge, U.S.] Two Angels, one of Life, and one of Death, Passed o'er the village as the morning broke; The dawn was on their faces; and beneath, The sombre houses capped with plumes of smoke. |