66 Prompt upon humanity, the Arctic's commander, the brave Luce (let his name be ever spoken with admiration and respect), ordered away his boat with first officer Gourley to inquire if the stranger had suffered harm. As Gourley went over the ship's side, oh, that some good angel had called to the brave commander, in the words of Paul on a like occasion, Except these abide in the ship, ye cannot be saved!" They departed, and with them the hope of the ship; for now the waters, gaining upon the hold, and rising up upon the fires, revealed the mortal blow. Oh, had now that stern, brave mate Gourley been on deck, whom the sailors were wont to obey, — had he stood to execute efficiently the commander's will,— we may believe that we should not have had to blush for the cowardice and recreancy of the crew, nor weep for the untimely dead! But, apparently, each subordinate officer lost all presence of mind, then courage, and so honor. In a wild scramble, that ignoble mob of firemen, engineers, waiters, and crew rushed for the boats, and abandoned the helpless women, children, and men to the mercy of the deep. Four hours there were from the catastrophe of the collision to the catastrophe of sinking. Oh, what a burial was here! Not as when one is borne from his home, among weeping throngs, and gently carried to the green fields, and laid peacefully beneath the turf and flowers. No priest stood to pronounce a burial service. It was an ocean grave. The mists alone shrouded the burial place. No spade WARREN'S ADDRESS. 149 prepared the grave, nor sexton filled up the hollowed earth. Down, down they sank; and the quick returning waters smoothed out every ripple, and left the sea as placid as before. XXII. WARREN'S ADDRESS. JOHN PIERPONT. STAND! the ground's your own, my braves! Will ye give it up to slaves? Will ye look for greener graves? Hope ye mercy still? What's the mercy despots feel? Hear it in that battle-peal! Read it on yon bristling steel! Ask it, ye who will. Fear ye foes who kill for hire? And, before you, see Who have done it! From the vale Let their welcome be! But, oh! where can dust to dust Be consigned so well, As where heaven its dews shall shed. And the rocks shall raise their head, XXIII. THE BUGLE SONG. ALFRED TENNYSON. THE splendor falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story; Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying; O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, bugle; answer, echoes — dying, dying, dying! LITTLE AND GREAT. 151 O love! they die in yon rich sky; They faint on hill, or field, or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying; XXIV. LITTLE AND GREAT. CHARLES MACKAY. A TRAVELLER, through a dusty road, Love sought its shade at evening time, And Age was pleased, in heats of noon, The dormouse loved its dangling twigs, It stood a glory in its place, A little spring had lost its way A passing stranger scooped a well, He walled it in, and hung with care He thought not of the deed he did, By summers never dried, Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues, And saved a life beside. A dreamer dropped a random thought; 'Twas old and yet 'twas new: A simple fancy of the brain, But strong in being true. The thought was small- its issue great, It sheds its radiance far adown, A nameless man, amid a crowd It raised a brother from the dust, |