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Down came the storm, and smote amain
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,
"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
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,
But the father answered never a word,
Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
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,
And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
And ever the fitful gusts between
A sound came from the land;
It was the sound of the trampling surf
The breakers were right beneath her bows,
And a whooping billow swept the crew
She struck where the white and fleecy waves
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
To see the form of a maiden fair,
Lashed close to a drifting mast.
The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,
Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
Christ save us all from a death like this,
292.-AT THE LAST.
JAS. B. BENSEE.
There must be something after all this woe;
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!
Let fancy guide dull effort through the gate,
And face the current, would she cross the stream.
For lifted up by constant, forward strife,
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-
293-A MORNING HYMN.
BY JOHN MILTON.
These are thy glorious works, parent of good,
Thus wond'rous fair; thyself how wond'rous then!
In these thy lower works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.
Him first, Him last, Him midst, and without end.
Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth
And nourish all things; let your ceaseless change
From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray,
His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow,
Join voices, all ye living souls; ye birds
To hill or valley, fountain, or fresh shade
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,
Were thy vines laid low, or thy lilies crushed,
"No pleasant garden toils were mine,
I have sate on the judgment seat,
How camest thou on the judgment seat,
"I climbed on the judgment seat myself;
For it grieved me to see the children around,
"They wasted the Master's precious seed,
They wasted the precious hours;
They trained not the vines, nor gathered the fruit,
"Nay, that grieved me more; I called and I cried, But they left me there forlorn;
My voice was weak, and they heeded not,
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)
Wait till the evening falls, sweetheart,
Wait till the evening falls;
The Master is near, and knoweth all,
But how fared thy garden plot, sweetheart,
"Nay! that is saddest of all to me,
That is saddest of all!
My vines are trailing, my roses are parched,
Go back to thy garden plot, sweetheart,
And bind thy lilies, and train thy vines,
Go make thy garden fair as thou canst,
Perchance he whose plot is next to thine,