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Bepeach our feet, if we wali gain
In the brigh: Benis of fair renown

The right of eminent domain.
We have not wings, we cannot soar;

Bat we have feet to scale and climb
By slow degrees, by more and more,

The cloudy summits of our time. The mighty pyramids of stone

That Wedge-like cleave the desert airs, When nearer seen, and better known,

Are but gigantic flights of stairs. The distant mountains, that uprear

Their solid bastions to the skies, Are crossed by pathways, that appear

As we to higher levels rise. The heights by great men reached and kept

Were not attained by sudden flight, But they, while their companions slept,

Were toiling upward in the night. Standing on what too long we bore,

With shoulders bent and downcast eyes We may discern-unseen before

A path to higher destinies.
Nor deem the irrevocable Past,

As wholly wasted, wholly vain,
If, rising on its wrecks, at last
To something nobler we attain.

THE PHANTOM SHIP.76
IN Mather's Magnalia Christi,

Of the old Colonial time,
May be found in prose the legend

That is here set down in rhyme.

A ship sailed from New Haven,

And the keen and frosty airs, That filled her sails at parting,

Were heavy with good men's prayers. “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 the 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 canvass,

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. 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 hips.
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.
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 forts 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.

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 vapours 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

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 colour shoots into those cheeks,

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

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 commanders,
I forget in what campaign,
Long besieged, in mud and rain,

Some old frontier town of Flanders,
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 tale, or dragoon's crest, Found on hedge-rows east and west,

After skirmish of the forces.