Morn on the waters! And purple and bright Bursts on the billows the flashing of light; O’er the glad waves like a child of the sun, See, the tall vessel goes gallantly on. Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail, And her pennon streams onward like hope in the gale; The winds come around her in murmur and song, And the surges rejoice as they bear her along. See, she looks up to the golden-edged clouds, And the sailor sings gaily aloft in her shrouds. Onward she glides amid ripple and spray, Over the waters, away and away! Bright as the visions of youth ere they part, Passing away like a dream of the heart. Who, as the beautiful pageant sweeps by, Music around her and sunshine on high, Pauses to think amid glitter and show Oh, there be hearts that are breaking below! Night on the waves! And the moon is on high, Hung like a gem on the brow of the sky, Treading its depths in the power of its might, And turning the clouds, as they pass her, to light. Look to the waters! Asleep on their breast Seems not the ship like an island of rest? Bright and alone on the shadowy main, Like a heart-cherished home on some desolate plain. Who, as he watches her silently gliding, Remembers that wave after wave is dividing Bosoms that sorrow and guilt could not sever, Hearts that are parted and broken forever? Or dreams that he watches afloat on the wave, The death-bed of hope, or the young spirit’s grave. So far as can be known only thirteen of the ninety-six ever got back home to Canada, after years of waiting, hoping and praying. All the others found untimely graves in that far-off land, where they died broken-hearted and alone. Linus Wilson Miller did not get home until August, 1846, he being one of the very first to reach America. A sailing ship brought him to Pernambuco. At that port the captain of the American barque _Globe_ accepted a bill drawn by him on his father for his passage, he being totally without money. Englishmen and Americans resident at Pernambuco however, on learning the facts, and being acquainted with the desperate treatment of Miller, raised the funds to take up the bill and send him on home. To-day we consider the execution of Lount and Matthews simply judicial murder, and Sir George Arthur went to his reward in after years with a heavy load on his conscience. It is hardly in the bounds of possibility for him ever to forget the time when Mrs. Lount knelt before him and prayed for the life of her husband, and he refused to as much as listen to her.