Mem'ry will sometimes rekindle the star

That blazed on the breast of the billow.

In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies,
And death stills the heart's last emotion;
Oh, then may the seraph of mercy arise

Like a star on eternity's ocean!

ΑΝΟΝ,

THE LIFE BOAT.

THE winds lash the waves, the surge mounts on high, Still the crew of the life boat the tempest defy,

The blasts of destruction they brave;

'Neath the thunder's loud roar and the lightning's flash,
With stout British hearts, on they fearlessly dash,
Midst the cries of distress and the ship's breaking crash,
The hopeless and drowning to save!

Huzza! man the life boat, and let the storm rave;
Our watchword is rescue !-we'll perish or save.

O'er the white crested billows she manfully sweeps,
Like an angel of mercy she gallantly leaps,

Rejoicing all terrors to brave.

Now lost to the view, now mounting on high,
As flash after flash illumes the dark sky,

Through the death-dealing torrents and breakers they fly,

As the hapless they hasten to save.

Huzza! man the life boat, and let the storm rave;
Our watchword is rescue!—we'll perish or savę.

Hark, hark! the wild shout now heard 'mid the blast, Huzza! now they board her, the grapnel is cast;

'Tis joy from the wreck that is heard!

They rescue her crew from the riggings and mast,
Of the ill-fated barque, and on they speed fast;

To the shore the boat flies like a bird.

Huzza! man the life boat, and let the storm rave;
Our watchword is rescue !—we'll perish or save.

ΑΝΟΝ.

'NO LIFE BOAT THERE.

It was a wild and lonely shore,

Girded by rocks; the sea-bird's cry,
The billow's everlasting roar,

The tempest, howling through the sky,
The only sounds-as though Despair

Sat throned, a gloomy monarch there.

The sun went down, black, threatening clouds
Quenching his wonted golden light,

And still they spread, like hanging shrouds,
Storm riding on the wings of night;
And the high rocks the billows lashed,
While, rolling answer, thunders crashed.

Above the thunder and the gale,
The minute-gun is booming now;
See, as the lightnings shimmer pale,

Yon vessel with half-buried bow!

Her cable snaps-all hope is o'er,
Her course is tow'rd that fatal shore.

She strikes the breakers o'er her sweep;
The hapless crew, so stoutly brave,
Are powerless now; the foaming deep
Must be their cold unhonoured grave;
Hark to their anguish-cry-their last
Wild prayer to God that swells the blast!

No arm to save-
e—no Life-boat near;

Oh, had that boat-a thing of power,
That fronts all dangers, mocks at fear,—
Come, angel-like, at that dread hour,
Haply no soul had darkly died-
Each safely wafted o'er that tide!

They struggle with the raging billow,

They shriek, they sink-then all are still, Laid coldly on their ocean-pillow,

The bleak winds o'er them whistling shrill ! They perished, asking aid in vain

No Life-boat on that stormy main.

A dog, strong swimmer, reached the strand;
He only baffled ruthless death;

He found his master, licked his hand,
And on him breathed his loving breath;
Looked on that form, stretched cold and low,
And e'en death's meaning seemed to know.

Fond, faithful brute, he stood and whined,
And would not quit that lifeless clay;
The drowned one had been gentle-kind;
He watched and howled till dawn of day:
Man's friend, true mourner of the dead,
Oft true when human friends have fled.

They came at last, and on that shore
Found the poor victim of the deep;
The dog, exhausted, howled no more,

But by his master seemed to sleep;
The wave-beat sands their mournful bed,
Winds wailed their dirge-for both were dead.

Oh, had man's wealth and mercy given

A Life-boat to that shore of gloomWhere storms so oft sweep angry heaven—

Each soul might have been snatched from doom! Stout hearts still battled through the

No widows, orphans, shedding tears.

years,

MITCHELL.

SEAWEED.

WHEN descends on the Atlantic

The gigantic

Storm-wind of the equinox,

Landward in his wrath he scourges

The toiling surges,

Ladened with seaweed from the rocks;

From Bermuda's reefs; from edges
Of sunken ledges,

In some far-off, bright Azore;

From Bahama, and the dashing,
Silver flashing

Surges of San Salvador;

From the tumbling surf, that buries
The Orkneyan skerries,

Answering the hoarse Hebrides;
And from wrecks of ships, and drifting
Spars, uplifting

On the desolate, rainy seas ;

Ever drifting, drifting, drifting

On the shifting

Currents of the restless main ;

Till in sheltered coves and reaches
Of sandy beaches,

All have found repose again.

So when storms of wild emotion

Strike the ocean

Of the poet's soul, ere long

From each cave and rocky fastness,

In its vastness,

Floats some fragment of a song;

From the far-off isles enchanted,

Heaven has planted

With the golden fruit of Truth;