That, our blinded efforts here, May not mar Thy great design, And each humble work appear Worthy of a child of Thine! The voices have ceased.—The service, in which all the company except the helmsman and myself had joined, is ended; and, one by one, the officers of the vessel, followed by the watch on duty, in their well blanched trousers and bright blue jackets, appear on deck; their sobriety of mien, and cheerfulness of countenance speaking volumes in favor of the benign influence of Christianity, even when acting upon what are erroneously considered by many, the worst materials. * * * * * ROSALINE. BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. Thou look’d’st on me all yesternight, Thine eyes were blue, thy hair was bright As when we murmured our trothplight Beneath the thick stars, Rosaline! Thy hair was braided on thy head As on the day we two were wed, Mine eyes scarce knew if thou wert dead— But my shrunk heart knew, Rosaline! The deathwatch tickt behind the wall, The blackness rustled like a pall, The moaning wind did rise and fall Among the bleak pines, Rosaline! My heart beat thickly in mine ears: The lids may shut out fleshly fears, But still the spirit sees and hears, Its eyes are lidless, Rosaline! A wildness rushing suddenly, A knowing some ill shape is nigh, A wish for death, a fear to die,— Is not this vengeance, Rosaline! A loneliness that is not lone, A love quite withered up and gone, A strong soul trampled from its throne,— What would’st thou further, Rosaline! ’Tis lone such moonless nights as these, Strange sounds are out upon the breeze, And the leaves shiver in the trees, And then thou comest, Rosaline! I seem to hear the mourners go, With long black garments trailing slow, And plumes anodding to and fro, As once I heard them, Rosaline! Thy shroud it is of snowy white, And, in the middle of the night, Thou standest moveless and upright, Gazing upon me, Rosaline! There is no sorrow in thine eyes, But evermore that meek surprise,— Oh, God! her gentle spirit tries To deem me guiltless, Rosaline! Above thy grave the robin sings, And swarms of bright and happy things Flit all about with sunlit wings,— But I am cheerless, Rosaline! The violets on the hillock toss, The gravestone is o’ergrown with moss, For Nature feels not any loss,— But I am cheerless, Rosaline! Ah! why wert thou so lowly bred? Why was my pride galled on to wed Her who brought lands and gold instead Of thy heart’s treasure, Rosaline! Why did I fear to let thee stay To look on me and pass away Forgivingly, as in its May, A broken flower, Rosaline!