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THE SHIPWRECK.

HER giant form

O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm, Majestically calm, would go,

'Mid the deep darkness, white as snow!

But gentler now the small waves glide,
Like playful lambs o'er a mountain's side.
So stately her bearing, so proud her array,
The main she will traverse for ever and aye.
Many ports will exult at the gleam of her mast!
-Hush! hush! thou vain dreamer, this hour
is her last!

Five hundred souls, in one instant of dread,
Are hurried o'er the deck;

And fast the miserable ship

Becomes a lifeless wreck.

Her keel hath struck on a hidden rock,

Her planks are torn asunder,

And down come her masts, with a reeling shock,

And a hideous crash like thunder.

Her sails are draggled in the brine

That gladdened late the skies,

And her pennant, that kissed the fair moonshine, Down many a fathom lies.

Her beauteous sides, whose rainbow hues
Gleamed softly from below,

And flung a warm and sunny flush

O'er the wreaths of murmuring snow,
To the coral rocks are hurrying down,
To sleep amid colors as bright as their own.

Oh! many a dream was in the ship
An hour before her death,

And sights of home with sighs disturbed
The sleeper's long-drawn breath.

Instead of the murmur of the sea,
The sailor heard the humming tree,
Alive through all its leaves,
The hum of the spreading sycamore
That grows before his cottage-door,

And the swallow's song in the eaves.

His arms enclosed a blooming boy,
Who listened, with tears of sorrow and joy,
To the dangers his father had passed;
And his wife-by turns she wept and smiled,
As she looked on the father of her child,

Returned to her heart at last.

-He wakes at the vessel's sudden roll,
And the rush of waters is in his soul.
Astounded the reeling deck he paces,
'Mid hurrying forms and ghastly faces;

The whole ship's crew are there.
Wailings around and overhead,
Brave spirits stupified or dead,
And madness and despair.

Now is the ocean's bosom bare,
Unbroken as the floating air;
The ship hath melted quite away,
Like a struggling dream at break of day.
No image meets my wandering eye,
But the new-risen sun and the sunny sky.

Though the night-shades are gone, yet a vapor

dull

Bedims the waves so beautiful;

While a low and melancholy moan

Mourns for the glory that hath flown.

REST.

SWEET is the pleasure
Itself cannot spoil;

Is not true leisure

One with true toil?

Thou that wouldst taste it,
Still do thy best;

WILSON.

Use it, not waste it,
Else 't is no rest.

Would'st behold beauty
Near thee, all round?

Only hath Duty

Such a sight found.

Rest is not quitting

The busy career :
Rest is the fitting
Of self to its sphere.

'Tis the brook's motion,

Clear, without strife,

Flowing to ocean

After its life.

Deeper devotion

Nowhere hath knelt,

Fuller emotion

Heart never felt.

'Tis loving and serving
The Highest and Best;
'Tis onwards, unswerving,
And that is true Rest.

J. S. DWIGHT.

WHY DOST THOU TALK OF DEATH, LADDIE.

WHY dost thou talk of death, laddie?
Why dost thou long to go?

The Master, that has placed thee here,
Hath work for thee to do.

Why dost thou talk of heaven, laddie?
What would'st thou say in heaven,
When the Master asks, "What hast thou done
With the talents I have given?

"I thee wealth and power,

gave

And the poor around thee spread ;—
Where are the sheep and lambs of mine
That thou hast reared and fed?

"I gave thee wit and eloquence
Thy brethren to persuade ;-
Where are the thousands by thy word
More wise and holy made?

"I placed thee in a land of light,
Where the Gospel round thee shone ;-
Where is the heavenly-mindedness

I find in all my own?

"And last I sent thee chastisement That thou mightest be my son ;Where is the trusting faith which says, 'Father, Thy will be done?""

ANONYMOUS.

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