Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie. blessed,Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest. The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye, And the memory of those who loved her and praised Are alike from the minds of the living erased. The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne ; The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn; The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave. The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap; The herdsman who climbed with his goats up the steep; The beggar who wandered in search of his bread, Have faded away like the grass that we tread. The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven; The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven; The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, Shone beauty and pleasure, her triumphs Have quietly mingled their bones in the are by; dust. 412 CAUGHT IN THE MAELSTROM. So the multitude goes, like the flowers or the They grieved, but no wail from their slum weed That withers away to let others succeed; So the multitude comes, even those we be hold, bers will come; They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb. To repeat every tale that has often been They died, aye! they died; and we things told. For we are the same our fathers have been ; seen; We drink the same stream, and view the same sun, And run the same course our fathers have run. The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think; From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink; To the life we are clinging they also would cling: But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing. that are now, Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow, Who make in their dwelling a transient abode, Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road. Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain, We mingle together in sunshine and rain; And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge, Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. 'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath, From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud, They loved, but the story we cannot unfold; They scorned, but the heart of the haughty Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be is cold; proud? CAUGHT IN THE MAELSTROM. CHARLES A. WILEY. N the Arctic ocean near the coast of Norway is situated the famous Maelstrom or whirlpool. Many are the goodly ships that have been caught in its circling power, and plunged into the depths below. On a fine spring morning, near the shore opposite, are gathered a company of peasants. The winter and the long night have passed away; and, in accordance with their ancient custom, they are holding a greeting to the return of the sunlight, and the verdure of spring. Under a green shade are spread, in abundance, all the luxuries their pleasant homes could afford. In the grove at one side are heard the strains of music, and the light step of the dance. At the shore lies a beautiful boat, and a party near are preparing for a ride. CAUGHT IN THE MAELSTROM. 413 companions on shore, they push gayly away. The day is beautiful, and they row on, and on. Weary, at length, they drop their oars to rest; but they perceive their boat to be still moving. Somewhat surprised,-soon it occurs to them that they are under the influence of the whirlpool. Moving slowly and without an effort-presently faster, at length the boat glides along with a movement far more delightful than with oars. Their friends from the shore perceive the boat moving, and see no working of the oars; it flashes upon their minds that they are evidently within the circles of the maelstrom. When the boat comes near they call to them, "Beware of the whirlpool!" But they laugh at fear,-they are too happy to think of returning: "When we see there is danger then we will return." Oh, that some good angel would come with warning unto them, "Unless ye now turn back ye cannot be saved." Like as the voice of God comes to the soul of the impenitent, "Unless ye mend your ways ye cannot be saved.” The boat is now going at a fearful rate; but, deceived by the moving waters, they are unconscious of its rapidity. They hear the hollow rumbling at the whirlpool's centre. The voices from the shore are no longer audible, but every effort is being used to warn them of their danger. They now, for the first time, become conscious of their situation, and head the boat towards shore. But, like a leaf in the autumn gale, she quivers under the power of the whirlpool. Fear drives them to frenzy! Two of the strongest seize the oars, and ply them with all their strength, and the boat moves towards the shore. With joy they cherish hope! and some, for the first time in all their lives, now give thanks to God,—that they are saved. But suddenly, CRASH, goes an oar! and such a shriek goes up from that ill-fated band, as can only be heard when a spirit lost, drops into perdition! The boat whirls again into its death-marked channel, and skips on with the speed of the wind. The roar at the centre grinds on their ears, like the grating of prison doors on the ears of the doomed. Clearer, and more deafening is that dreadful roar, as nearer and still nearer the vessel approaches the centre; then whirling for a moment on that awful brink, she plunges with her freight of human souls into that dreadful yawning hollow, where their bodies shall lie in their watery graves till the sea gives up its dead! And so, every year, ay, every month, thousands, passing along in the boat of life, enter almost unaware the fatal circles of the wine-cup. And, notwithstanding the earnest voices of anxious friends, "Beware of the gutter! of the grave! of hell!" they continue their course until the "force of habit" overpowers them; and, cursing and shrieking, they whirl for a time on the crater of the maelstrom, and are plunged below. HAVE lived by the sea-shore and by the mountains. No, I am not going to say which is best. The one where your place is, is the best for you. But this difference is: you can domesticate mountains, but the sea is feræ naturæ. You may have a hut, or know the owner of one, on the mountain-side; you see a light half-way up its ascent in the evening, and you know there is a home, and you might share it, You have noted certain trees, perhaps; you know the particular zone where the hemlocks look so black in October, when the maples and beeches have faded. All its reliefs and intaglios have electrotyped themselves in the medallions that hang round the walls of your memory's chamber. The sea remembers nothing. It is feline. It licks your feet,-its huge flanks purr very pleasantly for you; but it will crack your bones and eat you, for all that, and wipe the crimsoned foam from its jaws as if nothing had happened. The mountains give their lost children berries and water; the sea mocks their thirst and lets them die. The mountains have a grand, stupid, lovable tranquillity; the sea has a fascinating, treacherous intelligence. The mountains lie about like huge ruminants, their broad backs awful to look upon, but safe to handle. The sea smooths its silver scales |
