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"O Lord! if it be thy pleasure "-
Thus prayed the old divine-
"To bury our friends in the ocean,
Take them, for they are thine !"

But Master Lamberton muttered,
And under his breath said he,
"This ship is so crank and walty
I fear our grave she will be !

And the ships that came from England,

When the winter months were gone,

Brought no tidings of this vessel

Nor of Master Lamberton.

This put the people to praying

Then fell her straining topmasts, Hanging tangled in the shrouds, And her sails were loosened and lifted,

And blown away like clouds.

And the masts, with all their rigging,
Fell slowly, one by one,
And the hulk dilated and vanished,
As a sea-mist in the sun!

And the people who saw this marvel
Each said unto his friend,
That this was the mould of their
vessel,

And thus her tragic end.

And the pastor of the village

Gave thanks to God in prayer, That, to quiet their troubled spirits, He had sent this Ship of Air.

THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS.

That the Lord would let them hear A MIST was driving down the British

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,
A ship was seen below,
And they knew it was Lamberton,
Master,

Who sailed so long ago.

On she came, with a cloud of canvas,
Right against the wind that blew,
Until the eye could distinguish
The faces of the crew.

Ch. VI. It is contained in a letter from

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, Hythe, and Dover

Were all alert that day, To see the French war-steamers speeding over,

When the fog cleared away.

the Rev. James Pierpont, Pastor of New Sullen and silent, and like couchant Haven. To this account Mather adds these words:

"Reader, there being yet living so many credible gentlemen, that were eye-witnesses of this wonderful thing, I venture to publish it for a thing as undoubted as is wonderful."

lions,

Their cannon, through the night, Holding their breath, had watched,

in grim defiance, The sea-coast opposite.

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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 has 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.

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Our little lives are kept in equipoise By opposite attractions and desires;

The struggle of the instinct that enjoys,

And the more noble instinct that aspires.

These perturbations, this perpetual jar

Of earthly wants and aspirations high,

Come from the influence of an unseen star,

An undiscovered planet in our sky.

And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud

Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of light, Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd

Into the realm of mystery and night,

So from the world of spirits there descends

A bridge of light, connecting it with this,

O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends, Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss.

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 ;

At her feet and at her head
Lies a slave to attend the dead,
But their dust is white as hers.

Was she a lady of high degree,
So much in love with the vanity
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; No color shoots into those cheeks,

Either of anger or of pride, Nor will the mystery be unmasked At the rude question we have asked;

By those who are sleeping at her side.

Hereafter?-And do you think to look

On the terrible pages of that Book To find her failings, faults, and errors?

Ah, you will then have other cares, In your own short-comings and despairs,

In your own secret sins and terrors!

THE EMPEROR'S BIRD'S-NEST.
ONCE the Emperor Charles of Spain,
With his swarthy, grave com-
manders,

I forget in what campaign,
Long besieged, in mud and rain,
Some old frontier town of Flan-
ders.

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, Perched upon the Emperor's tent, In her nest, they spied a swallow. Yes, it was a swallow's nest,

Built of clay and hair of horses, Mane, or tail, or dragoon's crest, Found on hedgerows east and west, After skirmish of the forces.

Then an old Hidalgo said,

As he twirled his gray mustachio,

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And the soldiers, as they quaffed
Flemish beer at dinner, laughed
At the Emperor's pleasant humor.

So unharmed and unafraid

Sat the swallow still and brooded, Till the constant cannonade Through the walls a breach had made,

And the siege was thus concluded.

Then the army, elsewhere bent,

Struck its tents as if disbanding, Only not the emperor's tent, For he ordered, ere he went,

Very curtly, "Leave it standing!"

So it stood there all alone,

Loosely flapping, torn and tattered,

Till the brood was fledged and flown, Singing o'er those walls of stone Which the cannon-shot had shattered.

THE TWO ANGELS.

Two angels, one of Life and one of Death,

Passed o'er our village as the morn

ing broke ;

1 Macho, in Spanish, signifies a mule. Golondrina is the feminine form of Golon drino, a swallow, and also a cant name for a deserter.

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