At morn the venders in the minster's shade,
With gleaming scales and plumage at their feet,
Seemed figures on the canvas of Ostade,

Where mart and temple so benignly meet.

Of Holland whispered then the sullen barge,
We thought of Venice by the hushed canal,
And hailed each relic on time's voiceless marge,
Sepulchral lamp and clouded lachrymal.

The quaint arcades of traffic's feudal range,
And giant fossils of a lustier crew;

The diamond casements and the moated grange,
Tradition's lapsing fantasies renew.

The oaken effigies of buried earls,

A window blazoned with armorial crest,
A rusted helm, and standard's broidered furls,
Chivalric eras patiently attest.

Here William's castle frowns upon the tide;
There holy Werburgh keeps aerial sway,
To warn the minions who complacent glide,
And swell ambition's retinue to-day.

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
Of life, where all is turbulent and free,
To pause awhile upon the quiet verge
Of olden memories, beside the Dee!

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,
Storm and frost, - these oaks or I?

Pass an age or two away,

I must moulder and decay;

But the years that crumble me
Shall invigorate the tree,
Spread its branch, dilate its size,
Lift its summit to the skies.

Cherish honor, virtue, truth,
So shalt thou prolong thy youth.
Wanting these, however fast
Man be fixed and formed to last,
He is lifeless even now,

Stone at heart, and cannot grow.

William Cowper.

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!

I wonder who is master now

And wholesome anguish sheds !