Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

Birds of Passage


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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

       That the Lord would let them hear

       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.

      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

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      A 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 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.

      Haunted Houses

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      All houses wherein men have lived and died

       Are haunted houses. Through the open doors

       The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,

       With feet that make no sound upon the floors.

      We meet them at the door-way, on the stair,

       Along the passages they come and go,

       Impalpable impressions on the air,

       A sense of something moving to and fro.

      There are more guests at table, than the hosts

       Invited; the illuminated hall

       Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,

       As silent as the pictures on the wall.

      The stranger at my fireside cannot see

       The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear;

       He but perceives what is; while unto me

       All that has been is visible and clear.

      We have no title-deeds to house or lands;

       Owners and occupants of earlier dates

       From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands,

       And hold in mortmain still their old estates.

      The spirit-world around this world of sense

       Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere

       Wafts through these earthly mists and vapors dense

       A vital breath of more ethereal air.

      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