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were holding their way with rushing prow and roaring wheels, but invisible.

At a league's distance, unconscious, and at nearer approach unwarned; within hail, and bearing right toward each other, unseen, unfelt, till in a moment more, emerging from the gray mists, the ill-omened Vesta dealt her deadly stroke to the Arctic. The death-blow was scarcely felt along the mighty hull. She neither reeled nor shivered. Neither commander nor officers deemed that they had suffered harm. Prompt upon humanity, the brave Luce (let his name be ever spoken with admiration and respect,) ordered away his boat with the first officer to inquire if the stranger had suffered harm. As Gourley went over the ship's side, Oh, that some good angel had called to the brave commander in the words of Paul on a like occasion, "Except these abide in the ship, ye can not be saved.”

They departed, and with them the hope of the ship, for now the waters gaining upon the hold, and rising up upon the fires, revealed the mortal blow. Oh, had now that stern, brave mate, Gourley, been on deck, whom the sailors were wont to mind-had he stood to execute efficiently the commander's will—we may believe that we should not have had to blush for the cowardice and recreancy of the crew, nor weep for the untimely dead. But, apparently, each subordinate officer lost all presence of mind, then courage, and so honor. In a wild scramble, that ignoble mob of firemen, engineers, waiters and crew, rushed for the boats, and abandoned the helpless women, children, and men to the mercy of the deep! Four hours there were from the catastrophe of the collision to the catastrophe of SINKING!

Oh, what a burial was here! Not as when one is borne from his home, among weeping throngs, and gently carried to the green fields, and laid peacefully beneath the turf and the flowers. No priest stood to pronounce a burial service. It was an ocean grave. The mists alone shrouded the burialplace. No spade prepared the grave, nor sexton filled up the hollowed earth. Down, down they sank, and the quick returning waters smoothed out every ripple, and left the sea as if it had not been.

Ex. XII-HOME.

BERNARD BARTON.

WHERE burns the loved hearth brightest,

Cheering the social breast?

Where beats the fond heart lightest,

Its humble hopes possessed?
Where is the smile of sadness,
Of meek-eyed patience born,
Worth more than those of gladness
Which mirth's bright cheek adorn?
Pleasure is marked by fleetness,
To those who ever roam;
While grief itself has sweetness
At Home! dear home!

There blend the ties that strengthen
Our hearts in hours of grief,
The silver links that lengthen
Joy's visits when most brief;
There eyes in all their splendor
Are vocal to the heart,
And glances gay or tender
Fresh eloquence impart;
Then, dost thou sigh for pleasure?
O! do not widely roam;
But seek that hidden treasure
At Home! dear home!

Does pure religion charm thee

Far more than aught below?
Wouldst thou that she should arm thes
Against the hour of woe?
Think not she dwelleth only
In temples built for prayer;
For Home itself is lonely
Unless her smiles be there;
The devotee may falter,
The bigot blindly roam;
If worshipless her altar

At Home! dear home!

Love over it presideth,

With meek and watchful awe,

Its daily service guideth,

And shows its perfect law;

If there thy faith shall fail thee,
If there no shrine be found,
What can thy prayers avail thee
With kneeling crowds around?
Go! leave thy gift unoffered,
Beneath Religion's dome,
And be her first-fruits proffered
At home! dear home!

Ex. XIII-PRESS ON!

N. P. WILLIS.

[From a Valedictory Address.]

WE shall go forth together. There will come
Alike the day of trial unto all,

And the rude world will buffet us alike.
Temptation hath a music for all ears;
And mad ambition trumpeteth to all;
And the ungovernable thoughts within
Will be in every bosom eloquent ;-
But when the silence and the calm come on,
And the high seal of character is set,
We shall not all be similar. The flow
Of lifetime is a graduated scale,
And deeper than the vanities of power,
Or the vain pomp of glory, there is writ
A standard measuring its worth for Heaven.
The pathway to the grave may be the same,
And the proud man shall tread it, and the low,
With his bowed head, shall bear him company.
Decay will make no difference, and death,
With his cold hand, shall make no difference;
And there will be no precedence of power,
In waking at the coming trump of God;
But in the temper of the invisible mind,
The godlike and undying intellect,

There are distinctions that will live in heaven,
When time is a forgotten circumstance!

The soul of man

Createth its own destiny of power;

And as the trial is intenser here,

His being hath a nobler strength in heaven.

O press on!

What is its earthly victory? Press on!
For it hath tempted angels. Yet press on!
For it shall make you mighty among men;
And from the eyrie of your eagle thought
Ye shall look down on monarchs.
For the high ones and powerful shall come
To do you reverence: and the beautiful
Will know the purer language of your brow,
And read it like a talisman of love!
Press on! for it is godlike to unloose
The spirit, and forget yourself in thought;
Bending a pinion for the deeper sky,
And, in the very fetters of your flesh,
Mating with the pure essences of heaven!
Press on! "for in the grave there is no work,
And no device."-Press on! while yet ye may!

Ex. XIV.-RHYME OF THE RAIL.

SINGING through the forests,

Rattling over ridges,

Shooting under arches,

Rumbling over bridges;

Whizzing through the mountains,

Buzzing o'er the vale,

Bless me! this is pleasant,

Riding on the rail!

Men of different stations
In the eye of fame,
Here are very quickly
Coming to the same;
High and lowly people,
Birds of every feather,
On a common level,
Traveling together.

Gentlemen in shorts,

Looming very tall;

Gentlemen at large,
Talking very small;

SAXE

Gentlemen in tights,
With a loose-ish mien ;
Gentlemen in gray,

Looking rather green;

Gentlemen quite old,

Asking for the news,
Gentlemen in black,
In a fit of blues;
Gentlemen in claret,
Sober as a vicar;
Gentlemen in tweed,"
Dreadfully in liquor!

Stranger on the right

Looking very sunny, Obviously reading

Something rather funny. Now the smiles are thickerWonder what they mean? Faith, he's got the Knickerbocker magazine!

Stranger on the left

Closing up his peepers;
Now he snores amain,
Like the seven sleepers;
At his feet a volume
Gives the explanation,
How the man grew stupid
From "association!"

Ancient maiden lady
Anxiously remarks,
That there must be peril
'Mong so many sparks;
Roguish-looking fellow,
Turning to the stranger,
Says it's his opinion,
She is out of danger!

Woman with her baby,
Sitting vis-a-vis ;
Baby keeps a-squalling,
Woman looks at me;

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