Down came the storm, and smote amain
The vessel in its strength;

She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,
Then leaped her cable's length.

"Come hither! come hither! my little daughter, And do not tremble so;

For I can weather the roughest gale

That ever wind did blow.'

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
Against the stinging blast;

He cut a rope from a broken spar,

And bound her to the mast.

“O father! I hear the church-bells ring, O say, what may it be?"

"'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!' And he steered for the open sea.

"O father! I hear the sound of guns, O say, what may it be?"

"Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea!"

"O father! I see a gleaming light,
O say, what may it be?

But the father answered never a word,
A frozen corpse was he.

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
With his face turned to the skies,

The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow On his fixed and glassy eyes.

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That savéd she might be:

And she thought of Christ who stilled the wave,
On the Lake of Galilee.

And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
Through the whistling sleet and snow,
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe.

And ever the fitful gusts between

A sound came from the land;

It was the sound of the trampling surf
On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.

The breakers were right beneath her bows,
She drifted a dreary wreck,

And a whooping billow swept the crew
Like icicles from her deck.

She struck where the white and fleecy waves
Looked soft as carded wool;

But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
Like the horns of an angry bull.

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
With the masts went by the board;
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,
Ho! ho! the breakers roared!

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
A fisherman stood aghast,

To see the form of a maiden fair,

Lashed close to a drifting mast.

The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
The salt tears in her eyes;

And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,
On the billows fall and rise.

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
In the midnight and the snow!

Christ save us all from a death like this,
On the reef of Norman's Woe!

292.-AT THE LAST.

JAS. B. BENSEE.

There must be something after all this woe;
A sweet fruition from the harrowed past;
Rest some day for this pacing to and fro;

A tender sunbeam and dear flowers at last.

There will be something when these days are done, Something more fair by far than starry nights— A prospect limitless, as one by one

Embodied castles crown the airy heights.

So cheer up, heart, and for that morrow wait!
Dream what you will, but press toward the dream ;

Let fancy guide dull effort through the gate,

And face the current, would she cross the stream.
Then when that something lies athwart the way—
Coming unsought, as good things seem to do-
'Twill prove beneath the flash of setting day
A nobler meed than now would beckon you.

For lifted up by constant, forward strife,
Hope will attain so marvelous a height,
There can be nothing found within this life,
After this day to form a fitting night.

So Heaven alone shall ever satisfy,

And God's own light be ever light enough

To guide the purified, ennobled eye

Toward the smooth which lies beyond the rough.

There will be something when these clouds skim by-
A bounteous yielding from the fruitful past;
Sweet peace and rest upon the pathway lie,
E'en though but death and flowers at the last.

293-A MORNING HYMN.

BY JOHN MILTON.

These are thy glorious works, parent of good,
Almighty, thine this universal frame,

Thus wond'rous fair; thyself how wond'rous then!
Unspeakable, who sitt'st above these heavens
To us invisible, or dimly seen

In these thy lower works; yet these declare

Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.
Speak ye who best can tell, ye sons of light,
Angels; for ye behold him, and with songs
And choral symphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne, rejoicing; ye, in heaven,
On earth, join all ye creatures to extol

Him first, Him last, Him midst, and without end.
Fairest of stars, last in the train of night,
If better thou belong not to the dawn,
Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn
With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere,
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.
Thou sun, of this great world, both eye and soul,
Acknowledge him thy greater, sound his praise
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st,
And when high noon hast gain'd, and when thou falls't;
Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun, now fly'st,
With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies;
And ye five other wand'ring fires that move
In mystic dance, not without song, resound
His praise, who out of darkness called up light.

Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth
Of nature's womb, that in quaternion run
Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix

And nourish all things; let your ceaseless change
Vary to our great Maker still new praise.
Ye mists and exhalations that now rise

From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray,
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honor to the world's great Author rise!
Whether to deck with clouds th' uncolored sky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling show'rs,
Rising or falling still advance his praise.

His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow,
Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye pines.
With ev'ry plant, in sign of worship wave.
Fountains, and ye that warble as ye flow
Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise.

Join voices, all ye living souls; ye birds
That singing, up to heaven's gate ascend,
Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise;
Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk
The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep;
Witness if I be silent, morn or even,

To hill or valley, fountain, or fresh shade
Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise.
Hail, Universal Lord! be bounteous still
To give us only good; and if the night
Has gather'd aught of evil, or conceal'd,
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.

294. THE CHILD IN THE JUDGMENT SEAT.

MRS. E. R. CHARLES.

Where hast thou been toiling all day, sweetheart, That thy brow is burdened and sad?

The Master's work may make weary feet,

But it leaves the spirit glad.

Was thy garden nipped with the midnight frost,
Or scorched with the mid-day glare?

Were thy vines laid low, or thy lilies crushed,
That thy face is so full of care?

"No pleasant garden toils were mine,

I have sate on the judgment seat,
Where the Master sits at eve, and calls
The children around his feet."

How camest thou on the judgment seat,
Sweetheart, who set thee there?
'Tis a lonely and lofty seat for thee,
And well might fill thee with care.

"I climbed on the judgment seat myself;
I have sate there alone all day,

For it grieved me to see the children around,
Idling their life away.

"They wasted the Master's precious seed,

They wasted the precious hours;

They trained not the vines, nor gathered the fruit,
And they trampled the sweet meek flowers.”
And what didst thou on the judgment seat,
Sweetheart, what didst thou there?
Would the idlers heed thy childish voice?
Did the garden mend for thy care?

"Nay, that grieved me more; I called and I cried, But they left me there forlorn;

My voice was weak, and they heeded not,
Or they laughed my words to scorn."

Ah! the judgment seat was not for thee,

The servants were not thine;

And the eyes which fix the praise and the blame, See farther than thine or mine.

The voice that shall sound there at eve, sweetheart, Will not strive nor cry to be heard;

It will hush the earth, and hush the hearts,

And none will resist its word.

"Should I see the Master's treasures lost,

The gifts that should feed his poor,

And not lift my voice (be it as weak as it may)
And not be grievéd sore?"

Wait till the evening falls, sweetheart,

Wait till the evening falls;

The Master is near, and knoweth all,
Wait till the Master calls.

But how fared thy garden plot, sweetheart,
Whilst thou sat on the judgment seat?
Who watered thy roses, and trained thy vines,
And kept them from careless feet?

"Nay! that is saddest of all to me,

That is saddest of all!

My vines are trailing, my roses are parched,
My lilies droop and fall."

Go back to thy garden plot, sweetheart,
Go back till the evening falls,

And bind thy lilies, and train thy vines,
Till for thee the Master calls.

Go make thy garden fair as thou canst,
Thou workest never alone;

Perchance he whose plot is next to thine,
Will see it, and mend his own.