574 Such empty phantom More dear to me SIGHTS ON THE SEA. 'Tis the bells of Shandon, SIGHTS ON THE SEA. T WASHINGTON IRVING. O one given to day-dreaming, and fond of losing himself in reveries, a sea voyage is full of subjects for meditation; but then they are the wonders of the deep, and of the air, and rather tend to abstract the mind from worldly themes. I delighted to loll over the quarter-railing, or climb to the main-top, of a calm day, and muse for hours together on the tranquil bosom of a summer's sea; to gaze upon the piles of golden clouds just peering above the horizon, fancy them some fairy realms, and people them with a creation of my own;-to watch the gentle undulating billows, rolling their silver volumes, as if to die away on those happy shores. There was a delicious sensation of mingled security and awe with which I looked down from my giddy height, on the monsters of the deep at their uncouth gambols. Shoals of porpoises tumbling about the bow of the ship; the grampus slowly heaving his huge form above the surface; or the ravenous shark, darting like a spectre, through the blue waters. My imagination would conjure up all that I had heard or read of the watery world beneath me; of the finny herds that roam its fathomless valleys; of the shapeless monsters that lurk among the very foundations of the earth; and of those wild phantasms that swell the tales of fishermen and sailors, Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the ocean, would be another theme of idle speculation. How interesting this fragment of a world, hastening to rejoin the great mass of existence! What a glorious monument of human invention; which has in a manner triumphed over wind and wave; has brought the ends of the world into communication; has established an interchange of blessings, pouring into the sterile regions of the north all the luxuries of the south; has diffused the light of knowledge and the charities of cultivated life; and has thus bound together those scattered portions of the human race, between which nature seemed to have thrown an insurmountable barrier. We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at a distance. At sea, everything that breaks the monotony of the surrounding expanse attracts attention. It proved to be the mast of a ship that must have been completely wrecked; for there were the remains of handkerchiefs, by which some of the crew had fastened themselves to this spar, to prevent their being washed off by the waves. 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 among the caverns of the deep; silence, oblivion, like the waves, have closed over them, and no one can tell the story of their end. What sighs have been wafted after that ship! What prayers offered up at the deserted fireside of home! How often has the mistress, the wife, 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 may ever return for love to cherish. All that may ever be known, is, that she sailed from her port, "and was never heard of more!" ST. JOHN THE AGED. M growing very old. This weary Is bent and hoary with its weight of years, head That hath so often leaned on Jesus' In days long rast, that seem almost The limbs that followed Him my Master oft, groans, Refuse to bear me even through the streets, To preach unto my children. Even my lips Refuse to form the words my heart sends forth. My ears are dull; they scarcely hear the sobs Of my dear children gathered round my couch; My eyes so dim they cannot see the tears. God lays His hand upon me-yea, His hand, And not His rod—the gentle hand that I Felt those three years, so often pressed in mine, In friendship such as passeth woman's love. "I'm old, so old! I cannot recollect The faces of my friends, and I forget The words and deeds that make up daily life; But that dear face, and every word He spoke, Grow more distinct as others fade away; "Some seventy years ago I was a fisher by the sacred sea; It was at sunset. How the tranquil tide Bathed dreamily the pebbles: How the light Crept up the distant hills, and in its wake Soft purple shadows wrapped the dewy fields; And then He came and called me: then I gazed For the first time on that sweet face. Those eyes From out of which, as from a window, shone own; I followed in the twilight, holding fast His mantle. "Oh! what holy walks we had Through harvest fields, and desolate, dreary wastes; And oftentimes He leaned upon my arm, Weary and way worn. I was young and strong, And so upbore Him. Lord! now I am weak, And old, and feeble. Let me rest on Thee! So put Thine arm around me closer still! How strong Thou art! The daylight draws apace; Come, let us leave these noisy streets, and take The path to Bethany; for Mary's smile. Awaits us at the gate, and Martha's hands Have long prepared the cheerful evening meal; Come, James, the Master waits, and Peter, see, Has gone some steps before. "What say you, friends? That this is Ephesus, and Christ has gone seen The touching of His garments bring back strength To palsied limbs! I feel it has to mine. There let me tell them of a Saviour's love; Hath worn so thin that I can see beyond, "So raise up my head; How dark it is! I cannot seem to see The faces of my flock. Is that the sea That murmurs so, or is it weeping! Hush! 'My little children! God so loved the world He gave His Son; so love ye one another, Love God and men. Amen.' Now bear me back; My legacy unto an angry world is this. I feel my work is finished. Are the streets so full? What call the flock my name? the Holy John? Nay, write me rather, Jesus Christ's beloved, Can join it now. But who are these who And lover of my children. "Lay me down Once more upon my couch, and open wide The eastern window. See! there comes a light, Like that which broke upon my soul at e'en, When, in the dreary isle of Patmos, Gabriel came, And touched me on the shoulder. See! it grows, crowd The shining way? Say! joy! 'tis the eleven! With Peter first; how eagerly he looks! How bright the smiles are beaming on James' face! I am the last. Once more we are complete To gather round the Paschal feast. "My place As when we mounted towards the pearly Is next my Master-O! my Lord! my Lord! 578 THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. THOMAS CAMPBELL. Ο FUR bugles sang truce, for the night- Methought from the battle-field's dreadful cloud had lowered, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered: The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. array Far, far, I had roamed on a desolate track: 'Twas autumn, and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. |