"A curse with you go, ye men of Padstow! Ye shall not thrive or win, Ye have seen the last ship from your haven slip, And the last ship enter in. "For this deed I devote you to dwell without boat By the skirt of the oarèd blue, And ever be passed by sail and by mast, And none with an errand for you." And scarce had she spoke when the black storm broke With thunder and levin's might: Three days did it blow, and none in Padstow Could tell the day from night. Joy! the far thunder mutters soft, The wild clouds whirl o'erhead, And from a ragged rift aloft A shaft of light is sped. Now ho for him that waits to send The storm-bound bark to sea! And ho for them that hither bend To crowd our busy quay! Hath Ocean, think ye then, not heard His dying child deplore? Are not his sandy deeps unstirred, And thrust against the shore? Doth not a mighty ramp of sand Beleaguer all the bay, Mocking the strength of mortal hand To pierce or sweep away? The white-winged traders, all about, Fare o'er that bar to win: But this one cries, I cannot out, And that, I may not in. For thy dire woe, forlorn Padstow, What remedy may be? Not all the brine of thy sad eyne Will float thy ships to sea. The sighs that from thy seamen pass Might set a fleet a-sail, And the faces that look in the Mermaid's glass Are as long as the Mermaid's tail. ----R. Garnett. [Illustration: 0049] THE HIGHWAYMAN'S GHOST [Illustration: 0050] |Twelve o'clock--a misty night-- Glimpsing hints of buried light-- Six years strung in an iron chain--r Time I stood on the ground again! So--by your leave! Slip, easy enough, Withered wrists from the rusty cuff. The old chain rattles, the old wood groans, O the clatter of clacking bones! Here I am, uncoated, unhatted, Shirt all mildewed, hair all matted, Sockets that each have royally Fed the crow with a precious eye. O for slashing Bess the brown! Where, old lass, have they earthed thee down? Sobb'st beneath a carrier's thong? Strain'st a coalman's cart along? Shame to foot it!--must be so. See, the mists are smitten below; Over the moorland, wide away, Moonshine pours her watery day. There the long white-dusted track, There a crawling speck of black. The Northern mail, ha, ha! and he There on the box is Anthony. Coachman I scared him from brown or grey, Witness he lied my blood away. Haste, Fred! haste, boy! never fail! Now or never! catch the mail! The horses plunge, and sweating stop. Dead falls Tony, neck and crop. Nay, good guard, small profit thus, Shooting ghosts with a blunderbuss! Crash wheel! coach over! How it rains Hampers, ladies, wigs, and canes! O the spoil! to sack it and lock it! But, woe is me, I have never a pocket! ----R. Garnett. THE BROTHERS