Alas! that day, the fisherman
Had taken too much grog;
And being but a landsman, too,
He could n't "keep the log."

In vain he strove with all his might,
And tried to gain the shore;
Down, down he went to feed the fish
He'd baited oft before!

The moral of this mournful tale
To all is plain and clear:-

A single "drop too much" of rum,
May make a watery bier.

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!
Man is thy victim,-
Shipwreck thy dower!
Spices and jewels

From valley and sea,
Armies and banners,
Are buried in thee!

What are the riches
Of Mexico's mines,

To the wealth that far down
In thy deep waters shines?
The proud navies that cover
The conquering west-
Thou fling'st them to death,

With one heave of thy breast!

From the high hills, that view
Thy wreck-making shore,
When the bride of the mariner
Shrieks at thy roar;

SHEA.

When like lambs in the tempest
Or mews in the blast,
O'er thy ridge-broken billows,
The canvass is cast,-

How humbling to one

With a heart and a soul,
To look on thy greatness
And list to its roll,
To think how that heart
In cold ashes shall be,
While the voice of Eternity
Rises from thee!

Yes! where are the cities
Of Thebes and of Tyre?
Swept from the nations
Like sparks from the fire;
The glory of Athens,

The splendor of Rome?
Dissolved, and for ever,—
Like dew in thy foam.

But thou art almighty,—
Eternal,-sublime,-
Unweakened,-unwasted,-
Twin brother of Time!
Fleets, tempests, nor nations
Thy glory can bow;
As the stars first beheld thee,
Still chainless art thou!

But, hold! when thy surges
No longer shall roll,
And that firmament's length
Is drawn back like a scroll;
Then, then shall the spirit
That sighs by thee now,
Be more mighty,-more lasting,—
More chainless, than thou.

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,
Whose courage well was tried,
Had made the vessel heel,

And laid her on her side.

A land breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset ;-
Down went the Royal George,
With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!

Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
His last sea-fight is fought;
His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle;
No tempest gave the shock;
She sprang no fatal leak
She ran upon no rock.

k;

His sword was in his sheath;
His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down,
With twice four hundred men.

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,—
His victories are o'er;

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,
For ever and the same!
The ancient rocks yet ring to thee,
Whose thunders naught can tame.

Oh! many a glorious voice is gone,
From the rich bowers of earth,
And hushed is many a lovely one
Of mournfulness or mirth.

The Dorian flute that sighed of yore
Along thy wave, is still;

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,
Are with her eagles flown.

And mute the Moorish horn, that rang

O'er stream and mountain free;

And the hymn the leagued crusaders sang,
Hath died in Galilee.

But thou art swelling on, thou deep,
Through many an olden clime,
Thy billowy anthem, ne'er to sleep
Until the close of time.

Thou liftest up thy solemn voice
To every wind and sky;

And all our earth's green shores rejoice
In that one harmony.

It fills the noontide's calm profound,
The sunset's heaven of gold;

And the still midnight hears the sound,
E'en as when first it rolled.

Let there be silence, deep and strange,
Where sceptered cities rose!

Thou speak'st of One who doth not change;-
So may our hearts repose.

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