Oh, angel-spirit of my perished years! Thy early memory stands before me now: Ah! by _that_ memory, which so fair appears, Unveil once more the beauty of thy brow; Come—if I have not _quite_ outlived thee—come! And bid thy rival dark Despair depart— _His_ touch has left me blind and deaf and dumb— Bring _thou_ one ray of sunshine to my heart! * * * * * A GALE IN THE CHANNEL. BY CHARLES J. PETERSON, AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR,” ETC. IT was on a sunny day in the winter of 183-, that we dropped down the Mersey and took our leave of Liverpool. Our vessel was a new ship of seven hundred tons; and as she spread, one after another, her folds of white canvas to the breeze, I thought I had never seen a more beautiful sight. The scene around was lively and inspiriting. Innumerable craft of all sizes covered the waters far and near: here, a large merchantman moving like a stately swan, there, a light yacht skimming along with the swiftness of a swallow. The sunlight sparkled and danced on the billows; the receding coast grew more picturesque as we left it astern; and the blue expanse of the Irish channel stretched away in front, until lost in a thin haze on the opposite horizon. I had been reading below for several hours, but toward nightfall went on deck again. How I started at the change! It was yet an hour to sunset, but the luminary of day was already hidden in a thick bank of clouds, that lay stretched ominously along the western seaboard. The wind had increased to a smart gale, and was laden with moisture. The billows increased in size every minute, and were whitening with foam far and near. Occasionally as a roller struck the ship’s bows, the white spray flew crackling over the forecastle, and sometimes even shot into the top: on these occasions a foreboding, melancholy sound, like the groan of some huge animal in pain, issued from the thousand timbers of the vessel. Already, in anticipation of the rising tempest, the canvas had been reduced, and we were now heading toward the Irish coast under reefed topsails, courses, a spanker and jib. “A rough night in prospect, Jack!” I said addressing an old tar beside me. “You may well say that, sir,” he replied. “It’s bad on the Norway coast in December, and bad going into Sandy Hook in a snow-storm; but both are nothing to a gale in the channel here,” he added, as a sudden whirl of the tempest covered us with spray. “I wish we had more sea room,” I answered musingly. “Ay! I’d give the wages of the voyage if we had. How happy you all seemed in the cabin, sir, the ladies especially, an hour or two ago—I suppose it was because we are going home—ah! little did any of us think,” he added, with a seriousness, and in a language uncommon for a sailor, “that we might be bound to another, and a last home, which we should behold first.”