THE SHIPWRECKED SOLITARY'S SABBATH. 331 Is now empurpling SCOTLAND's mountain-tops, Or, higher risen, slants athwart her vales, Tinting with yellow light the quivering throat Of day-spring lark, while woodland birds below Chaunt in the dewy shade. Thus all night long He watches, while the rising moon describes The progress of the day in happier lands. And now he almost fancies that he hears The chiming from his native village church: And now he sings, and fondly hopes the strain May be the same that sweet ascends at home, In congregation full,-where, not without a tear, They are remembered who in ships behold The wonders of the deep; he sees the hand, The widowed hand, that veils the eye suffused; He sees his orphaned boy look up, and strive The widowed heart to soothe. His spirit leans On God. Nor does he leave his weekly vigil, Though tempests ride o'er welkin-lashing waves On winds of cloudless wing; though lightnings burst So vivid that the stars are hid and seen In awful alternation; calm he views The far-exploding firmament, and dares To hope one bolt in mercy is reserved For his release; and yet he is resigned To live; because full well he is assured,

Thy hand does lead him, Thy right hand upholds.

And Thy right hand does lead him. Lo! at last,

One sacred eve he hears, faint from the deep,
Music remote, swelling at intervals,

As if the embodied spirit of sweet sounds
Came slowly floating on the shoreward waves.
Forward the gleam-girt castle* coastwise glides—
It seems as it would pass away. To cry
The wretched man in vain attempts, in vain-
Powerless his voice as in a fearful dream:

Not so his hand: he strikes the flint,—a blaze
Mounts from the ready heap of withered leaves.
The music ceases, accents harsh succeed,-
Harsh, but most grateful! downward drop the sails;
Ingulphed the anchor sinks; the boat is launched,
But cautious lies aloof till morning dawn.
O! then the transport of the man, unused
To other human voice beside his own,

His native tongue to hear! he breathes at home,
Though earth's diameter is interposed.

GRAHAME.

THE CONTRAST.

THE frown of the night-storm had scarcely blown by,

And the ocean was still in its roar;

The wind had not ceased from disturbing the sky, When I ventured to walk on the shore.

* A Missionary Ship.

THE CONTRAST.

333

I looked to the sea, and a wreck had been tossed On the breakers that foamed from beneath; And bodies still throbbing were washed on the coast,

And lay grouped in the stillness of death.

I sought from among the pale corses around
For some symptoms of life, but in vain;
When I heard, from a distance, an indistinct sound
Of a voice that seemed uttered in pain.

"Farewell, giddy world," it exclaimed with a sigh, "Disregarded and slighted by thee;

For my country I've fought, for my country I die, But that country cared nothing for me.

"For thee, native England, my life I have spent, And have spilt my best blood in thy wars; And yet, though your missions so far have been sent,

You've neglected the souls of your tars.

"We were left on the brink of destruction to sleep, And no voice has aroused us away;

No arm was outstretched to collect the poor sheep That have wandered so sadly astray.

"And now I must go to the doom that I dread, For ages that ever must roll,

With a life of iniquities heaped on my head,
For there's no man has cared for my soul!"

He ceased, and I sought him amongst the pale dead,

While he yet had the hour to repent,—

When a heart-rending groan, that yet thrills through my head,

Was the close of this hopeless lament.

On the cold shore extended I found him at last, But his spirit had ceased to be there;

His brow was still frowning, his hands were still clasped,

And he looked the mute form of despair.

Not far from his side lay a corpse on the sands
Of a negro, yet wet with the foam;

Once a captive in yonder frail wreck by his chains,
A poor slave torn away from his home.

But a smile had been left on his African face,
Of a soul that had gone to its rest;

His arms were still crossed in the lifeless embrace
Of a volume that lay on his breast :—

'Twas a Bible that Christians of England had sent,

And the missions of England had given;

THE MARINER'S GRAVE.

335

'Twas that which had taught him the need to

repent,

And directed his spirit to heaven.

I grieved at the contrast,-the slave that lay there, With a smile of sweet hope on his face;

And the sailor, still black with the frown of despair,

Beyond even death to erase.

One prayer, one desire, my full heart seemed to have,

That, while England continued to look

To the ignorance and guilt of the negro and slave, She would think on her own "hearts of oak." ANONYMOUS.

THE MARINER'S GRAVE.

THE winds had ceased-the moaning wave
Gave up its dead unto the shore,
To sleep within a calmer grave,
Where storms can reach no more.
Unfelt by him the summer day,
And winter night may glide away,
And suns and seasons vainly roll
Above his dark and final goal.