But what a feast of joy to me, if some Fast-sailing frigate to the Channel come Back'd here her topsail, or brought gently up Let from her bow the splashing anchor drop, By faint contrary wind stay'd in her cruise, The _Phaethon_ or dancing _Arethuse_, Or some immense three-decker of the line, Romantic as the tale of Troy divine; Ere yet our iron age had doom'd to fall The towering freeboard of the wooden wall, And for the engines of a mightier Mars Clipp'd their wide wings, and dock'd their soaring spars. The gale that in their tackle sang, the wave That neath their gilded galleries dasht so brave Lost then their merriment, nor look to play With the heavy-hearted monsters of to-day. One noon in March upon that anchoring ground Came Napier's fleet unto the Baltic bound: Cloudless the sky and calm and blue the sea, As round Saint Margaret's cliff mysteriously, Those murderous queens walking in Sabbath sleep Glided in line upon the windless deep: For in those days was first seen low and black Beside the full-rigg'd mast the strange smoke-stack, And neath their stern revolv'd the twisted fan. Many I knew as soon as I might scan, The heavy _Royal George_, the _Acre_ bright, The _Hogue_ and _Ajax_, and could name aright Others that I remember now no more; But chief, her blue flag flying at the fore, With fighting guns a hundred thirty and one, The Admiral ship _The Duke of Wellington_, Whereon sail'd George, who in her gig had flown The silken ensign by our sisters sewn. The iron Duke himself,--whose soldier fame To England's proudest ship had given her name, And whose white hairs in this my earliest scene Had scarce more honour'd than accustom'd been,-- Was two years since to his last haven past: I had seen his castle-flag to fall half-mast One morn as I sat looking on the sea, When thus all England's grief came first to me, Who hold my childhood favour'd that I knew So well the face that won at Waterloo. But now 'tis other wars, and other men;-- The year that Napier sail'd, my years were ten-- Yea, and new homes and loves my heart hath found: A priest has there usurped the ivied mound, The bell that call'd to horse calls now to prayers, And silent nuns tread the familiar stairs. Within the peach-clad walls that old outlaw, The Roman wolf, scratches with privy paw. 5 O Love, I complain, Complain of thee often, Because thou dost soften My being to pain: Thou makest me fear The mind that createth, That loves not nor hateth In justice austere; Who, ere he make one, With millions toyeth, And lightly destroyeth Whate'er is begun. An' wer't not for thee, My glorious passion, My heart I could fashion To sternness, as he.