THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS.* A 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, Hythe, 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, That all was well. 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 drum-beat from the wall, No morning gun from the black fort's embrasure, Awaken with its call! *The Duke of Wellington, who held the office of Warden of the Cinque Ports, died almost suddenly at Walmer Castle, September 14th, 1852, aged 82. 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, 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, The sun rose bright o'erhead; Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated That a great man was dead. H. W. Longfellow. JANUARY WIND. THE wind, wife, the wind; how it blows, how it blows; It grips the latch, it shakes the house, it whistles, it screams, it crows; It dashes on the window-pane, then rushes off with a cry, Ye scarce can hear your own loud voice, it clatters so loud and high; And far away upon the sea it floats with thunder-call, The wind, wife; the wind, wife; the wind that did it all. The wind, wife, the wind; how it blew, how it blew; The very night our boy was born, it whistled, it screamed, it crew; And while you moan'd upon your bed, and your heart was dark with fright, I swear it mingled with the soul of the boy you bore that night; It scarcely seems a winter since, and the wind is with us still, The wind, wife; the wind, wife; the wind that blew us ill! The wind, wife, the wind; how it blows, how it blows; goes; And David ever was the same, wayward, and wild, and bold For wilful lad will have his way, and the wind no hand can hold ; But ah! the wind, the changeful wind, was more in the blame than he; The wind, wife; the wind, wife; that blew him out to sea! The wind, wife, the wind; now 'tis still, now 'tis still; And as we sit I seem to feel the silence shiver and thrill; 'Twas thus the night he went away, and we sat in silence here, We listened to our beating hearts, and all was weary and drear; We longed to hear the wind again, and to hold our David's hand The wind, wife; the wind, wife; that blew him out from land. The wind, wife; the wind; up again, up again! It blew our David round the world, yet shrieked at our window-pane; And ever since that time, old wife, in rain, and in sun, and in snow, Whether I work or weary here, I hear it whistle and blow: It moans around, it groans around, it wanders with scream and cry The wind, wife; the wind, wife; may it blow him home Robert Buchanan. to die. THE DESOLATION OF GREENLAND. ONCE more to Greenland's long-forsaken beach, The moon hath waxed and waned, and all is past: She turned in wrath, and limb from limb had rent 1 The hunter, but his dagger's plunging steel Mingling their blood from mutual wounds, they lay -Red evening comes; no husband's shadow falls In frightful echoes startling all around, Perhaps his own freed spirit, lingering near, When her lost spouse comes o'er the widow's thought, |