And, as their splendor flashed and failed, We thought of wrecks upon the main,-- Of ships dismasted, that were hailed, And sent no answer back again. The windows rattling in their frames, The ocean, roaring up the beach-- The gusty blast--the bickering flames-- All mingled vaguely in our speech; Until they made themselves a part Of fancies floating through the brain-- The long lost ventures of the heart, That send no answers back again. O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned! They were indeed too much akin-- The drift-wood fire without that burned, The thoughts that burned and glowed within. SONG FOR A SABBATH MORNING. BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. Arise ye nations, with rejoicing rise, And tell your gladness to the listening skies; Come out forgetful of the week's turmoil, From halls of mirth and iron gates of toil; Come forth, come forth, and let your joy increase Till one loud paean hails the day of peace. Sing trembling age, ye youths and maidens sing; Ring ye sweet chimes, from every belfry ring; Pour the grand anthem till it soars and swells And heaven seems full of great celestial bells! Behold the Morn from orient chambers glide, With shining footsteps, like a radiant bride; The gladdened brooks proclaim her on the hills And every grove with choral welcome thrills. Rise ye sweet maidens, strew her path with flowers, With sacred lilies from your virgin bowers; Go youths and meet her with your olive boughs, Go age and greet her with your holiest vows;-- See where she comes, her hands upon her breast The sainted Sabbath comes, smiling the world to rest. CITY LIFE. BY CHARLES W. BAIRD. Forgive me, Lord, that I so long have dwelt In noisome cities, whence Thy sacred works Are ever banished from my sight; where lurks Each baleful passion man has ever felt. Here human skill is shown in shutting out All sight and thought of things that God hath made; Lest He should share the constant homage paid To Mammon, in the hearts of men devout. O, it was fit that he[2] upon whose head Weighed his own brother's blood, and God's dread curse, Should build a city, when he trembling fled Far from his Maker's face. And which was worse, The murder--or departing far from Thee? Great God! impute not either sin to me! [Footnote 2: Cain.--Genesis iv. 17.] THE CRUISE OF THE GENTILE. BY FRANK BYRNE. (_Concluded from page_ 147.) CHAPTER V. _In which there is a Storm, a Wreck, and a Mutiny._