in his admirable sermon on the calling of a gentleman, pointedly says: "He should labor and study to be a leader unto virtue, and a notable promoter thereof; directing and exciting men thereto by his exemplary conversation; encouraging them by his countenance and authority; rewarding the goodness of meaner people by his bounty and favor: he should be such a gentleman as Noah, who preached righteousness, by his words and works, before a profane world."

164.-SHIPS AT SEA.

R. B. COFFIN.

I have ships that went to sea
More than fifty years ago;
None have yet come home to me,
But keep sailing to and fro.

I have seen them, in my sleep,
Plunging through the shoreless deep,
With tattered sails and battered hulls,
While around them screamed the gulls,
Flying low, flying low.

I have wondered why they staid
From me, sailing round the world;
And I've said, "I'm half afraid

That their sails will ne'er be furled."
Great the treasures that they hold,-
Silks and plumes, and bars of gold;
While the spices which they bear
Fill with fragrance all the air,

As they sail, as they sail.

Every sailor in the port

Knows that I have ships at sea,
Of the waves and winds the sport;
And the sailors pity me.
Oft they come and with me walk,
Cheering me with hopeful talk,
Till I put my fears aside,
And contented watch the tide

Rise and fall, rise and fall.

I have waited on the piers,
Gazing for them down the bay,
Days and nights, for many years,
Till I turned heart-sick awav
But the pilots, when they laza,
Stop and take ma the hand,

Saying, "You will live to see
Your proud vessels come from sea,
One and all, one and all.'

So I never quite despair,

Nor let hope or courage

fail;

And some day, when skies are fair,
Up the bay my ships will sail.
I can buy then all I need,-
Prints to look at, books to read,
Horses, wines, and works of art,
Everything except a heart:

That is lost, that is lost.
Once when I was pure and young,
Poorer, too, than I am now,
Ere a cloud was o'er me flung,

Or a wrinkle creased my brow,
There was one whose heart was mine;
But she's something now divine,
And though come my ships from sea,
They can bring no heart to me,
Evermore, evermore.

165.—THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW.

ROBERT LOWELL.

Oh, that last day in Lucknow fort!
We knew that it was the last,
That the enemy's lines crept surely on,
And the end was coming fast.

To yield to that foe was worse than death,
And the men and we all worked on;
It was one day more of smoke and roar,
And then it would all be done.

There was one of us, a corporal's wife,
A fair, young, gentle thing,

Wasted with fever in the siege,

And her mind was wandering.

She lay on the ground, in her Scottish plaid,
And I took her head on my knee:

"When my father comes hame frae the pleugh," she said.

"Oh, then please waken me."

She slept like a child on her father's floor

In the flecking of woodbine-shade,

When the house-dog sprawls by the open door,

And the mother's wheel is stayed.

It was smoke and roar and powder-stench,
And hopeless waiting for death;

And the soldier's wife, like a full-tired child,
Seemed scarce to draw her breath.

I sank to sleep; and I had my dream
Of an English village-lane,

And wall and garden;-but one wild scream
Brought me back to the roar again.

There Jessie Brown stood listening

Till a sudden gladness broke

All over her face, and she caught my hand
And drew me near, as she spoke:-

The Hielanders! oh! dinna ye hear
The slogan far awa?

The Macgregor's! oh! I ken it weel;
It's the grandest o' them a'!

"God bless the bonny Hielanders!

We're saved! we're saved!" she cried; And fell on her knees; and thanks to God Flowed forth like a full flood-tide.

Along the battery-line her cry

Had fallen among the men,

And they started back;-they were there to die; But was life so near them, then?

They listened for life; the rattling fire

Far off, and the far off roar,

Were all; and the Colonel shook his head,
And they turned to their guns once more.

But Jessie said, "The slogan's dune;

But dinna ye hear it noo?

The Campbells are comin'l' It's nae a dream;

Our succors hae broken through!"

We heard the roar and the rattle afar

But the pipes we could not hear;

So the men plied their work of hopeless war,
And knew that the end was near.

It was not long ere it made its way,-
A shrilling, ceaseless sound:

It was no noise from the strife afar,
Or the sappers under ground.

It was the pipes of the Highlanders!
And now they played "Lang Syne;"

And it came to our men like the voice of God,
As they shouted along the line.

And they wept and they shook one another's hands,
And the women sobbed in a crowd;

And every one knelt down where he stood,

And we all thanked God aloud.

That happy time, when we welcomed them,
Our men put Jessie first;

And the general gave her his hand, and cheers
Like a storm from the soldiers burst.

And the pipers' ribbons and tartans streamed,
Marching round and round our line;
And our joyful cheers were broken with tears
As the pipers played "Lang Syne."

166.—TOO DEAR FOR THE WHISTLE.
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.

When I was a child of seven years old, my friends, on a holiday, filled my pocket with coppers. I went directly to a shop where they sold toys for children; and being charmed with the sound of a whistle, that I met by the way, in the hands of another boy, I voluntarily gave all my money for one. I then came home, and went whistling all over the house, much pleased with my whistle, but disturbing all the family. My brothers, and sisters, and cousins, understanding the bargain I had made, told me I had given four times as much for it as it was worth; put me in mind of what good things I might have bought with the rest of the money, and laughed at me so much for my folly, that I cried with vexation; and the reflection gave me more chagrin than the whistle gave me pleasure.

This, however, was afterwards of use to me, the impression continuing on my mind; so that often, when I was tempted to buy some unnecessary thing, I said to myself, "Don't give too much for the whistle;" and I saved my money. As I grew up, came into the world, and observed the actions of men, I thought I met with many, very many, "who gave too much for the whistle." When I saw one too ambitious of court favor, sacrificing his time in attendance on levees, his repose, his liberty, his virtue, and perhaps his friends, to attain it, I have said to myself "This man gives too much for his whistle." When I saw another fond of popularity, constantly employing himself in political bustles, neglecting his own affairs, and ruining them by that neglect, "He pays, indeed," said I, too dear for his whistle.'

"

If I knew a miser, who gave up every kind of comfortable living, all the pleasure of doing good to others, all the esteem of his fellow-citizens, and the joys of benevolent friendship, for the sake of accumulating wealth-"Poor man,” said I, "you pay too dear for your whistle." When I met a man of pleasure, sacrificing every laudable improvement of the mind, or of his fortune, to mere corporeal sensation, and ruining his health in its pursuit-"Mistaken man," said I, "you are providing pain for yourself, instead of pleasure; you are pay ing too dear for your whistle." If I see one fond of appearance or fine clothes, fine houses, fine furniture, fine equipages, all above his fortune, for which he contracts debts, "Alas, say I, "he has paid dear, very dear for his whistle." In short, the miseries of mankind are largely due to their false estimate of things, to giving "too much for their whistles."

167.-APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN.

LORD BYRON.

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean,-roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin,-his control
Stops with the shore;-upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.

His steps are not upon thy paths, thy fields
Are not a spoil for him,-thou dost arise

And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,

Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray
And howling, to his gods, where haply lies
His petty hope in some near port or bay,

And dashest him again to earth:-there let him lie.

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
And monarchs tremble in their capitals,
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war;

These are thy toys, and as the snowy flake
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar
Alike the Armada's pride or spoils of Trafalgar,