Loud and sudden there was heard,
All around them and below,
The sound of hammers, blow on blow,
Knocking away the shores and spurs.
And see! she stirs !
She starts-she moves-she seems to feel
The thrill of life along her keel,
And, spurning with her foot the ground,
With one exulting, joyous bound,
She leaps into the ocean's arms!
And lo! from the assembled crowd
There rose a shout, prolonged and loud,
That to the ocean seemed to say,
"Take her, oh bridegroom old and gray,
Take her to thy protecting arms,
With all her youth and all her charms."
How beautiful she is! how fair
She lies within those arms, that press
Her form with many a soft caress
Of tenderness and watchful care!
Sail forth upon the sea, oh ship!
Through wind and wave right onward steer!
The moistened eye, the trembling lip,
Are not the signs of doubt or fear.
We know what master laid thy keel,
What workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,
Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,
What anvils rang, what hammers beat,
In what a forge, and what a heat,
Were shaped the anchors of thy hope.
Fear not each sudden sound and shock,
'Tis of the wave, and not the rock;
"Tis but the flapping of the sail,
And not a rent made by the gale.
In spite of rock and tempest roar,
In spite of false lights on the shore,
Sail on! nor fear to breast the sea;
Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee.
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
Our faith, triumphant o'er our fears,
Are all with thee-are all with thee.
EVENING AT THE FARM.
Over the hill the farm-boy goes:
His shadow lengthens along the land;
A giant staff in a giant hand;
In the poplar-tree, above the spring,
The katydid begins to sing;
The early dews are falling:
Into the stone-heap darts the mink;
The swallows skim the river's brink;
And home to the woodland fly the crows,
When over the hill the farm-boy goes,
"Co' boss! co' boss! co'! co'! co'!" Farther, farther, over the hill,
Faintly calling, calling still,
"Co' boss! co' boss! co'! co'! co'!"
Into the yard the farmer goes
With grateful heart at the close of day:
Harness and chain are hung away;
In the wagon-shed stands yoke and plow;
The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow;
The cooling dews are falling:
The friendly sheep their welcome bleat,
The pigs come grunting at his feet,
And the whinnying mare her master knows
When into the yard the farmer goes,
His cattle calling,
"Co' boss! co' boss! co'! co'! co'!"
While still the cow-boy, far away,
Goes seeking those that have gone astray,
"Co' boss! co' boss! co'! co'! co'!"
Now to her task the milkmaid goes:
The cattle come crowding through the gate,
Lowing, pushing, little and great;
About the trough, by the farm-yard pump,
The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump,
While the pleasant dews are falling:
The new milch heifer is quick and shy,
But the old cow waits with tranquil eye,
And the white stream into the bright pail flows
When to her task the milkmaid goes,
"So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!"
The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool,
And sits and milks in the twilight cool,
Saying "So! so, boss! so! so!"
To supper at last the farmer goes:
The apples are pared, the paper read,
The stories are told, then all to bed.
Without, the cricket's ceaseless song
Makes shrill the silence all night long;
The heavy dews are falling:
The housewife's hand has turned the lock;
Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock;
The household sinks to deep repose,
But still in sleep the farm-boy goes,
Singing, calling,
"Co' boss! co' boss! co'! co'! co'!"
And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams,
Drums in the pail with the flashing stream,
Murmuring "So, boss! so!"
(falsetto.) "Great battle! Times extra!" the newsboy cried,
But it scarcely rippled the living tide
That ebbed and flowed in the busy street,
With its throbbing hearts and its restless feet.
Again through the hum of the city thrilled-
(falsetto.) "Great battle! Times extra! Ten thousand killed!"
And the little carrier hurried away
With the sorrowful news of that winter-day.
To a dreary room in the attic high
Trembled the words of that small, sharp cry,
And a lonely widow bowed down her head
And murmured," Willie-my Willie is dead!
Oh, I feared it was not an idle dream
That led me, last night, to that deep, dark stream,
Where the ground was wet with a crimson rain,
And strewn all over with ghastly slain!
The stars were dim, for the night was wild,
But 1 threaded the gloom till I found my child.
"The cold rain fell on his upturned face,
And the swift destroyer had left no trace
Of the sudden blow and the quick, sharp pain,
But a little wound and a purple stain.
I tried to speak, but my voice was gone,
And my soul stood there in the cold gray dawn
Till they rifled his body with ruthless hand,
And covered him up with the reeking sand.
"Willie! oh, Willie! it seems but a day
Since thy baby-head on my bosom lay—
Since I heard thy prattle so soft and sweet,
And guided the steps of thy tottering feet;
And thou wert the fairest and last of three
That the Father in heaven had given to me.
All the life of my heart-love, hope, and joy-
Were treasured in thee, my strong, brave boy;
And the last faint words that thy father said
Were, 'Willie will mind thee when I am dead.'
But they tore the flag from thy death-cold hand
And covered thee up in the reeking sand."
She read the names of the missing and slain,
But one she read over again and again;
And the sad, low words that her white lips said
Were," Company C, William Warren-dead."
The world toiled on through the busy street,
With its aching hearts and unresting feet;
The night came down to her cold hearth-stone,
And she still read on in the same low tone;
And still the words that her white lips said
Were," Company C, William Warren-dead."
The light of the morning chased the gloom
From the emberless hearth of that attic room,
And the city's pulses throbbed again,
But the mother's heart had forgotten its pa
She had gone through the gates to the better land
With that terrible list in her pale, cold hand-
With her white lips parted, as last she said,
"Company C, William Warren-dead!"
แ "BORROBOOLA GHA."
A stranger preached last Sunday,
And crowds of people came
To hear a two-hour sermon
With a barbarous sounding name.
"Twas all about some heathens
Thousands of miles afar,
Who lived in a land of darkness,
Called Borroboola Ghä.
So well their wants he pictured,
That, when the plates were passed,
Each listener felt his pockets,
And goodly sums were cast;
For all must lend a shoulder
To push a rolling car
That carries light and comfort
To "Borroboola Ghä."
That night their wants and sorrows
Lay heavy on my soul,
And deep in meditation
I took my morning stroll,
Till something caught my mantle
With eager grasp and wild,
And, looking down with wonder,
I saw a little child-
A pale and puny creature,
In rags and dirt forlorn.
What could she want? I questioned,
Impatient to be gone.
With trembling voice she answered,
"We live just down the street,
And mammy she's a dyin',
And we've nothin' left to eat."
Down in a wretched basement,
With mould upon the walls,
Through whose half-buried windows
God's sunshine never falls-
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