completely wrecked; for there were the remains of hand kerchiefs by which some of the crew had fastened themselves to this spar, to prevent their being washed off by the waves.

2. There was no trace by which the name of the ship could be ascertained. The wreck had evidently drifted about for many months: clusters of shell-fish had fastened about it, and long sea-weeds flaunted at its sides. But where, thought I, is the crew? Their struggle has long been over; they have gone down amidst the roar of the tempest; their bones lie whitening in the caverns of the deep. Silence, oblivion, like the waves, have closed over them, and no one can tell the story of their end.

3. What sighs have been wafted after that ship! what prayers have been offered up at the deserted fireside of home; how often have the maiden, the wife, and the mother, pored over the daily news to catch some casual intelligence of this rover of the deep; how has expectation darkened into anxiety, anxiety into dread, and dread into despair. Alas! not one memento shall return for love to cherish. All that shall ever be known is, that she sailed from port, and was never heard of more.

WASHINGTON IRVING.

CXVIII. THE SHIP "CITY OF BOSTON."

"We only know she sailed away,
And ne'er was heard of more."

1. Waves of the ocean, that thunder and roar,
Where is the ship that we sent from our shore?
Tell, as ye dash on the quivering strand,
Where is the crew that comes never to land?
Where are the hearts that, unfearing and gay,

Broke from the clasp of affection away?

Where are the faces that, smiling and bright,
Sailed for the death-darkened regions of night?
Waves of the ocean, that thunder and roar,

Where is the ship that we sent from our shore?
2. Storms of the ocean, that bellow and sweep,
Where are our friends that went forth on the deep?
Where are the faces ye paled with your sneer?
Where are the hearts ye have palsied with fear?
Where is the maiden, so tender and fair?
Where is the father, of silvery hair?
Where is the glory of womanhood's time?
Where is the warm blood of man's vigor and prime?
Storms of the ocean, that bellow and pour,

Where is the ship that we sent from our shore?
3. Birds of the ocean, that scream through the gale,
What have ye seen of a wind-beaten sail?
What have ye heard in your moments of glee,
Birds of the bitter and treacherous sea?
Perched ye for rest on the threatening mast,
Beaten and shattered and bent by the blast?
Heard ye no message to carry away,

Home to the hearts that are yearning to-day?
Birds of the ocean, that hover and soar,
Where is the ship that we sent from our shore?

4. Depths of the ocean, that fathomless lie,

What of the crew that no more cometh nigh?
What of the guests that so silently sleep
Low in thy chambers, relentlessly deep?
Cold is the couch they have haplessly won;
Long is the night they have entered upon;
Still must they sleep, till the trumpet o'erhead
Summons the sea to uncover its dead!
Depths of the ocean, with treasures in store,
Where is the ship that we sent from our shore?

5. God of the ocean, of mercy and power,
Look we to Thee in this heart-crushing hour!
Cold was the bitter and merciless wave,

Warm was Thy love and Thy goodness, to save;
Dark were the tempests that thundered and flew,
Bright was Thy smile, bursting happily through;
Bright to the band who have followed Thine eye
Home to the shores of the beautiful sky!
Safe in Thy goodness and love, evermore,
Leave we the ship that we sent from our shore?

WILL CARLETON.

CXIX. THE TIME TO WORK.

The following beautiful extract is taken from the opening portion of a sermon preached by Mr. Miller, of Chicago, to his congregation, January 23, 1876, from the text," For the night cometh when no man can work."

1. Morning in the East! At first only a dim effulgence breaks the edge of the horizon; brighter it grows, and still brighter. Soon the tinted lines go in billows along the ragged rim.. After this they dash upward, foaming to the very zenith point; then the whole sky is overspread.

2. The mountain tops are gilded. The clouds drop their blackness and float in unwonted glory; the hills and trees and houses below take on shape; over all the land the morning has come, and every thing rejoices in its heaven-sent light.

3. Up with the sun, the farmer's lad makes ready for the toil of the day. Through the gate, down the old lane goes the harnessed team afield, long before the dew has taken wing from the fragrant clover tops.

4. What a work is his! There stands the plow, chindeep in the furrow, waiting his coming. The rattling

whiffletrees are fastened in their place; the long lines buckled round his back; the stout handles grasped with tight clutch,—all ready, and away goes the fretting team as if impatient for the work.

5. Thus round the field and round the field runs the polished shaft, each time cutting off a ribbon of green, and each time turning it under as smoothly and evenly as a seamstress turns under the edge of the garment she hems upon her lap.

6. But the day goes by, and evening comes on at length. The sun, which a few hours before hung in the dome of noon, has now rolled far down the western slope. The brightness lessens. The trees push their dark shadows far over the ground. The sun now wholly drops from view, and the day is gone. Leaving the plow midway in the furrow, the dusty teain is headed barnward in the gathering shadows,- for the night has come, when no man can work.

7. Morning in mid-winter! Up with the sun, the chopper goes forth to the work of the day. Basket on arm and ax over shoulder, we can track him all the way to the woods through the crusted snow. How the echoing strokes ring out into the frosty air! Down come the tall maples and smooth beeches and shaggy walnuts on every side. The very earth jars with their thundering crash, wakening the squirrel from his winter sleep, and frightening the rabbit from his hiding place under the brush.

8. But the hours go by, and evening draws on apace. Almost imperceptibly at first the darkness drifts down through the upper branches. Faster it falls, and still faster. The shadows deepen. The measured strokes come fainter. The brightness wholly goes, and then all is still. Basket on arm and ax over shoulder, once more the chopper sets out over the crusted snow,-for the night has come when no man can work.

9. Morning in the city! Out from a thousand homes go the workmen to their daily toil. The machinist to his lathe, the carpenter to his bench, the blacksmith to his anvil, the miller to his hopper. How the wheels fly, and the chisels cut, and the hammers strike, and the stones whirl! Through ten long hours does the busy hum go on, and then a stopping of labor on every side. 10. The band slips off the flying wheel. The chisels lie untouched amid the shavings. The fire goes out on the blacksmith's forge. The stones cease whirling in the dusty mill. Under all the roofs a mysterious stillness settles down,- for the night has come when no man can work.

HENRY T. MILLER,

CXX.-BATTLE OF WATERLOO.

1. There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell;

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising
knell !

2. Did you not hear it? No; 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;

On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet-
But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;