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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.

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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?
Will ye to your HOMES retire?
Look behind you! - they're afire!

And, before you, see

Who have done it! From the vale
On they come !— and will ye quail?
Leaden rain and iron hail

Let their welcome be!

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But, oh! where can dust to dust

Be consigned so well,

As where heaven its dews shall shed.
On the martyred patriot's bed,

And the rocks shall raise their head,
Of his deeds to tell?

XXIII.

THE BUGLE SONG.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

THE splendor falls on castle walls

And snowy summits old in story;
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying;
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes - dying, dying, dying!

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far, from cliff and scar,

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow! let us hear the purple glens replying;

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes — dying, dying, dying!

LITTLE AND GREAT.

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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;
And answer, echoes, answer-dying, dying, dying.

XXIV.

LITTLE AND GREAT.

CHARLES MACKAY.

A TRAVELLER, through a dusty road,
Strewed acorns on the lea;
And one took root and sprouted up,
And grew into a tree.

Love sought its shade at evening time,
To breathe his early vows;

And Age was pleased, in heats of noon,
To bask beneath its boughs.

The dormouse loved its dangling twigs,
The birds sweet music bore;

It stood a glory in its place,
A blessing evermore.

A little spring had lost its way
Amid the grass and fern;

A passing stranger scooped a well,
Where weary men might turn.

He walled it in, and hung with care
A ladle at the brink:

He thought not of the deed he did,
But judged that Toil might drink.
He passed again and lo! the well,

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.
It shone upon a genial mind,
And lo! its light became
A lamp of life, a beacon ray,
A monitory flame.

The thought was small- its issue great,
A watch-fire on the hill,

It sheds its radiance far adown,
And cheers the valley still.

A nameless man, amid a crowd
That thronged the daily mart,
Let fall a word of hope and love,
Unstudied, from the heart.
A whisper on the tumult thrown,
A transitory breath,

It raised a brother from the dust,
It saved a soul from death.

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