Alas! that day, the fisherman In vain he strove with all his might, The moral of this mournful tale A single "drop too much" of rum, And he who will not "sign the pledge," And keep his promise fast, May be, in spite of fate, a stark Cold-water man, at last! Ex. VIII. THE OCEAN. LIKENESS of heaven! Agent of power! From valley and sea, What are the riches To the wealth that far down With one heave of thy breast! From the high hills, that view SHEA. When like lambs in the tempest How humbling to one With a heart and a soul, Yes! where are the cities The splendor of Rome? But thou art almighty,— But, hold! when thy surges Ex. IX.-FATE OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. TOLL for the brave! The brave that are no more,— All sunk beneath the wave, Fast by their native shore! Eight hundred of the brave, And laid her on her side. A land breeze shook the shrouds, Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone; It was not in the battle; k; His sword was in his sheath; Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes. Her timbers yet are sound; And she may float again, Full-charged with England's thunder, And plough the distant main. But Kempenfelt is gone,— And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the wave no more. COWPER. Ex. X.-THE SOUND OF THE SEA. Thou art sounding on, thou mighty sea, Oh! many a glorious voice is gone, The Dorian flute that sighed of yore The harp of Judah peals no more On Zion's awful hill. And Memnon's lyre hath lost the chord That breathed the mystic tone; MRS. HEMANS And the songs at Rome's high triumphs poured, And mute the Moorish horn, that rang O'er stream and mountain free; And the hymn the leagued crusaders sang, But thou art swelling on, thou deep, Thou liftest up thy solemn voice And all our earth's green shores rejoice It fills the noontide's calm profound, And the still midnight hears the sound, Let there be silence, deep and strange, Thou speak'st of One who doth not change;- Ex. XI.-LOSS OF THE ARCTIC. H. W. BEECHER. Ir was autumn. Hundreds had wended their way from pilgrimages; from Rome and its treasures of dead art, and its glory of living nature; from the sides of the Switzer's mountains, from the capitals of various nations; all of them saying in their hearts, we will wait for the September gales to have done with their equinoctial fury, and then we will embark; we will slide across the appeased ocean, and in the gorgeous month of October, we will greet our longed-for native land, and our heart-loved homes. And so the throng streamed along from Berlin, from Paris, from the Orient, converging upon London, still hastening toward the welcome ship, and narrowing every day the circle of engagements and preparations. They crowded aboard. Never had the Arctic borne such a host of passengers, nor passengers so nearly related to so many of us. The hour was come. The signal ball fell at Greenwich. It was noon also at Liverpool. The anchors were weighed; the great hull swayed to the current; the national colors streamed abroad, as if themselves instinct with life and national sympathy. The bell strikes; the wheels revolve; the signal gun beats its echoes in upon every structure along the shore, and the Arctic glides joyfully forth from the Mersey, and turns her prow to the winding channel, and begins her homeward run. The pilot stood at the wheel, and men saw him. Death sat upon the prow, and no eye beheld him. Whoever stood at the wheel in all the voyage, Death was the pilot that steered the craft, and none knew it. He neither revealed his presence nor whispered his errand. And so hope was effulgent, and lithe gayety disported itself, and joy was with every guest. Amid all the inconveniencies of the voyage, there was still that which hushed every murmur,-" Home is not far away." And every morning it was still one night nearer home! Eight days had passed. They beheld that distant bank of mist that for ever haunts the vast shallows of Newfoundland. Boldly they made it; and plunging in, its pliant wreaths wrapped them about. They shall never emerge. The last sunlight has flashed from that deck. The last voyage is done to ship and passengers. At noon there came noiselessly stealing from the north that fated instrument of destruction. In that mysterious shroud, that vast atmosphere of mist, both steamers |