Hark! the stout main-mast now is rent

See! See! the forked flames burst out!

Make fast each plank beneath your feet! Oh, dash the briny waves about,

And stifle the consuming heat!

The morning sun its splendor throws
Upon the storm-tossed floating wreck;
The crew, still struggling mid their woes,
Are toiling on the burning deck.

Five lingering days they toil, to keep

The flame from bursting round them there,

Five lingering nights upon the deep

They float, as if in dumb despair.

Their aching sight is stretched in vain,
From morning's prime to evening late;
No distant ship upon the main

Draws near, to snatch them from their fate.

They gaze and toil, they toil and gaze,
Mid famine dire and raging heat;
The deck, crisped by the hidden blaze,
Can scarcely now support their feet: -

But look! a vessel heaves in sight!
Bravely that gallant ship draws near;
The boats are lowered; each heart beats light;
Thank God! there is no more to fear!

They all are safe: but still was turned
The gaze of that exhausted crew

To where the blackened hulk still burned,
Blazing within their dizzy view.

Swift the fire gains: - and now outflash
Those flames by precious fuel fed,
And the burnt wreck, with one wild crash,
Through the black water sinks like lead!

A month goes by, and then once more
Their wanderings are at end;
They tread upon their native shore,
And greet each old familiar friend;

And one who lands with right good-will,
Gratefully looks to heaven above;

The crucifix is with him still,

And still he shares a mother's love.

Oh, never more he'll mount the mast,
Or sail before the ocean breeze;
His strength has gone, his power has past,
He sinks beneath a slow disease:

Slowly he sinks, and day by day,

He feels his race is nearly run,

And, as he gently fades away,

The mother watches o'er her son.

Humble their home, and poor their fare,
But holy joy within them burns ;-

She watches with a mother's care,
And he a mother's love returns.

40

It is her arm supports his head,

He is her son, her joy, her pride: A bible rests upon his bed;

A crucifix is by his side.

Not long will he know sorrow now;

Short are the throbs that heave his breast; The death-dew gathers on his brow,

Softly he sinks in peaceful rest.

Oh long has lived that mother's love!
Him she has watched from life's first day!

And here she sadly leans above,

To see life's current ebb away !

She pressed his hand,

"Oh now," she said,

"What can I ever know of joy?

The last hope of my life has fled!

Oh speak once more, my darling boy!"

Then, ere he closed his eyes in rest,

He sought her sorrow to beguile;

And as her hand in his he prest,

Calm was his look and sweet his smile.

As if a message from the sky

Had come to sanctify her will;

It seemed as if that kindling eye

Her heart with heavenly power did fill.

The struggle's o'er : - closed are those eyes;

The soul hath gently passed away ; —

See! as in sleep before us lies

His manly form - but cold as clay !

And now that form, that braved so well
The thousand perils of the wave,

Is borne, while tolls the solemn bell,

To rest within a church-yard grave.

The swallow skims the meadow ground,
The bloom is on the hawthorn spray,
Tho sky is fair, and all around

Seems fitting the sweet month of May.

But often shall this scene impart,

When spring shall its brief course have run, A joy to this sad mother's heart,

As she reflects upon her son.

Oh, holy are the links that bind

The living to the dead in love;

For while they linger here, the mind

Communes with them in realms above!

R. C. W.

CICERO ON THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL.

[From the Tusculan Questions,-continued from page 150.]

XXV. WHAT then is the drift of this discourse? What that power (of memory) is, and whence, I think may be understood. Certainly it is not of the heart, of the blood, of the brain, nor of atoms. Whether it is breath or fire I know not; nor am I ashamed, as they are,* to confess my ignorance of what I do not know. If I might affirm anything upon a subject so obscure, be the soul breath or fire, I would swear that it is divine. What? Pray tell me, does this so great power of memory seem to you to be sprung from, or formed of earth, or of this cloudy and misty heaven? If you see not what this thing is, yet you see of what sort it is; if not even that, yet certainly you see how great a thing it is. What then? Is it a capacity in the soul into which, as into a vessel, all that we remember is poured? That, indeed, is absurd; for how can we understand a vessel, or any such figure of the soul; how understand, at all, so great a power of holding? Do we think the soul to be impressed like wax, and memory to be the traces of things stamped on the mind? But what traces can there be of words, what of things themselves? Besides, what space would be great enough to contain so many impressions? What, then, is that power which investigates hidden things, which is called invention and reasoning? Does it seem to you to be formed of this earthy, mortal, and perishable nature? Or, who first gave names to all things? which seemed to Pythagoras to indicate the highest wisdom; or, who collected men, scattered here and there, and united them in society? who reduced the sounds of the voice which seemed infinite, within the few marks of the letters? who traced the courses of the wandering stars, their progressions, their pauses? All these were great men ; and they greater who discovered the arts of agriculture, of clothing, of architecture, the means of preserving life, of security against wild beasts, by which, being softened and refined, we have advanced from these useful sciences to the more elegant accomplishments. For we receive great delight through the medium of the ear, the nature and variety of sounds being discovered

* Certain philosophers before alluded to.