by H. W. Longfellow 1807 - 1882

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 had 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.

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