"Twas old Ben Brown, the Captain; he'd laughed at the women's

doubt,

We'd always been first on the beach, sir, when the boat was goin' out.

I didn't move, but I pointed to the white face on the bed

"I can't go, mate," I murmured, "in an hour she may be dead, I cannot go and leave her to die in the night alone."

As I spoke Ben raised his lantern, and the light on my wife was thrown;

And I saw her eyes fixed strangely with a pleading look on me, While a tremblin' finger pointed through the door to the ragin' sea, Then she beckoned me near, and whispered, "Go, and God's will be done!

For every lad on that ship, John, is some poor mother's son."

Her head was full of the boy, sir-she was thinkin' may be, some day

For lack of a hand to help him his life might be cast away,

"Go John, and the Lord watch o'er you! and spare me to see the light,

And bring you safe," she whispered, "out o' the storm to-night." Then I turned and kissed her softly, and tried to hide my tears, And my mates outside, when they saw me, set up three hearty cheers;

But I rubbed my eyes wi' my knuckles, and turned to old Ben and said, "I'll see her again, may be lads, when the sea gives up its dead."

We launched the boat in the tempest, though death was the goal in view,

And never a one but doubted if the craft could live it through;
But our boat she stood it bravely, and, weary and wet and weak
We drew in hail of the vessel we had dared so much to seek.
But just as we came upon her she gave a fearful roll,

And went down in the seethin' whirlpool with every livin' soul!
We rowed for the spot, and shouted, for all around was dark-
But only the wild wind answered the cries from our plungin' bark.
I was strainin' my eyes and watchin', when I thought I heard

a cry,

And I saw past our bows a somethin' on the crest of a wave dash by;
I stretched out my hand to seize it. I dragged it aboard, and then
I stumbled, and struck my forrud, and fell like a log on Ben.
I remember a hum of voices, and then I knowed no more
Till I came to my senses here, sir-here in my home ashore.
My forehead was tightly bandaged, and I lay on my little bed.
I'd slipp'd so they told me arter, and a rullock had struck my head.

Then my mates came in and whispered; they'd heard I was comin' round;

At first I could scarcely hear them, it seemed like a buzzin' sound;

EE

But as soon as my head got clearer, and accustomed to hear 'em speak.

I knew as I'd lain like that, sir, for many a long, long week.

I guessed what the lads was hidin', for their poor old shipmate's sake,

I could see by their puzzled faces they'd got some news to break; So I lifts my head from the pillow, and I says to old Ben, "Look here!

I'm able to bear it now, lad-tell me, and never fear."

66

Not one of 'em ever answered, but presently Ben goes out,
And the others slinks away like, and I says, What's this about?
Why can't they tell me plainly as my poor old wife is dead?”
Then I fell again on the pillows, and I hid my achin' head;
I lay like that for a minute, till I heard a voice cry,
"John!"
And I thought it must be a vision as my weak eyes gazed upon;
For there by the bedside standin' up and well was my wife;
And who do ye think was with her? Why, Jack, as large as life.
It was him as I'd saved from drownin' the night as the lifeboat went
To the wreck of the Royal Helen; 'twas that as the vision meant.
They'd brought us ashore together, he'd knelt by his mother's bed
And the sudden joy had raised her like a miracle from the dead;
And mother and son together had nursed me back to life,
And my old eyes woke from darkness to look on my son and wife.
Jack? He's our right hand now, sir; 'twas Providence pulled him
through-

He's allus the first aboard her when the lifeboat wants a crew.

(By permission of the Author.)

A TALE OF THE DOVER EXPRESS.

CLEMENT W. SCOTT.

[Mr. Clement W. Scott has, within a comparatively short time, raised himself to a position of considerable eminence in the world of letters. His published works comprise "Lays of a Londoner," "Poppy Land," and "Round About the Isles;" he has written and adapted numerous productions for the stage with conspicuous success.]

How did I do it? Well, sit you down, if you're got ten minutes to spare,

And I'll tell you the tale how it happened to me-well to me and my mate out there.

Don't put it all down to our boast and brag, for I'll take my oath we try,

We engine fellows, to stick to the rail, if we happen to live or

die,

It isn't because with filth and grease we are covered from foot to head

That we haven't got pluck like soldier Bill in his uniform smart

and red.

We haven't got bands to tootle to us, nor women, nor mates to

cheer,

We march at the sound of the station-bell, and the scream of the wind in our ear;

We have gals to love us, and children, too, who cling to the face and neck,

Though we're never called to the grand parade, or march'd to the hurricane deck,

A man's a man when he does his work—well, it may be more or less,

But in Fenian days you should say your prayers when driving the Dover Express!

We started off-'twas a night in June-and the beautiful moon shone bright

Through the silent glass of the station, when our guard sang out "All right!"

He was in charge of the train, the Guard-but me and my mate just then

Had taken in pledge, for good or for ill, the lives of the women and

men.

Away we went at a splendid pace when we'd coupled and left Herne Hill,

Behind was the roar of a city on fire, in front was the country still.

Then we came to a point where we always turn, and mutter a sort of pray'r

For the wife, and the young 'uns asleep in the town, from the men in the engine's glare.

It wasn't like that in the train, I bet; did anyone trouble a rap?

The honeymoon couples were locked in fast, and the others were playing at 'nap;'

Papers, and smoking, and gossip, and chaff; does it ever strike them that a nerve

Is required from the men who must drive in the dark an express round the Chatham curve?

I looked at my watch, we were up to time, and the engine leapt and sped

To the river we cross as it runs to the sea, with the Rochester lights ahead!

I often think of the train behind and the passengers fast asleep,
As we slow on the pace just to tackle the curve round Strood and
Rochester Keep.

It puzzles those foreigner chaps who cross where the river in silence flows,

With the Castle one minute miles away and the next right under

your nose.

You have felt the jerk? Well, that's no odds, may be you'd have felt more odd

With a mate by your side at the engine-fire, who suddenly cried, "My God!

There's something ahead on the six-foot way! Look there!" And I held my breath.

A something! And what? on the rails ahead-we must drive for our lives or death!

There wasn't a second to pause or think, though I saw by the light of the train

The river, the viaduct, scenes of home we never should visit again. "What shall you do?" Then I turned and saw Tom's piteous face and sad.

"What shall I do? Hold fast, my boy! I shall cram on the pace like mad!"

Off with the brake, and shove on the steam-in a second a crash, a leap,

Right into the iron the engine tore, with the passengers fast asleep.

It reeled at the shock did their devilish snare, to the rush and the roar and the beat,

Before was dear life and the light and the air; behind was the dust of defeat!

Away to the rear went Rochester town, its danger, its storms and stress,

We'd taken a pledge, and we kept it, sir, in saving the Dover Express!

They're sending the hat round! thank you, kind, for me and my mate, you say,

Well, the money will come in casy like, when we're laid on the shelf some day.

It's only right that the women and men who arrived at Dover town, And were saved that night round Rochester curve should cheerfully "plank it down."

But we don't want money for what we've done-there's something far better than gain

If a man can earn his Victoria Cross in charge of a railway train! If a man can prove he has plenty of pluck, and is thoroughly English made,

As well in front of a fierce express as in rear of a bold brigade! But there's something far better than money to me, though it's terrible hard in Town

To give the young'uns their annual shoes, and the missus a decent gown,

I'd give your money up every cent, and the moment I'd gladly bless When you hand us the villain who wanted to wreck our lives on the Dover Express!

(By permission of the Author.)

THE DEATH OF ABSALOM.

N. P. WILLIS.

[Nathaniel Parker Willis was born in Portland, U.S.A., January 20, 1817. Many of his sacred poems were written when he was in the seventeenth year of his age. He died 1867.]

THE waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low
On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curl'd
Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still
Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse.

The reeds bent down the stream; the willow-leaves,
With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide,

Forgot the lifting winds; and the long stems,
Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse,
Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way,
And lean'd in graceful attitudes, to rest.
How strikingly the course of nature tells,
By its light heed of human suffering,
That it was fashion'd for a happier world!

He had fled

King David's limbs were weary.
From far Jerusalem; and now he stood,
With his faint people, for a little rest
Upon the shores of Jordan. The light wind
Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow
To its refreshing breath; for he had worn
The mourner's covering, and he had not felt
That he could see his people until now.
They gathered round him on the fresh green bank,
And spoke their kindly words; and, as the sun
Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there,
And bow'd his head upon his hands to pray.

Oh! when the heart is full-when bitter thoughts
Come crowding thickly up for utterance,
And the poor common words of courtesy
Are such an empty mockery-how much
The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!
He pray'd for Israel-and his voice went up
Strongly and fervently. He pray'd for those
Whose love had been his shield-and his deep tones
Grew tremulous. But, oh! for Absalom-
For his estranged, misguided Absalom-
The proud, bright being, who had burst away,
In all his princely beauty, to defy

The heart that cherish'd him-for him he pour'd
In agony that would not be controll'd,
Strong supplication, and forgave him there,

Before his God, for his deep sinfulness.