'Lost, with all hands, at sea.' The dread words sound like a wail, The song of the waits, and the clash of the bells, Ring like death-bed dirges or funeral knells, In the pauses of the gale. Never a home so poor But it brightens for good Yule Tide, Never a heart too sad or too lone, But the holy Christmas mirth 'twill own, And his welcome will provide. Where the sea-coal fire leaps On the fisherman's quiet hearth, The Yule Log lies for his hand to heave, While he hastes to his bride on Christmas Eve, In the flush of his strength and mirth. High on the little shelf The tall Yule candle stands, For the ship is due ere the Christmas night, And it waits to be duly set alight, By the coming father's hands. Long has the widow spared Her pittance for warmth and bread, That her sailor boy, when he home returns, May joy, that her fire brightly burns, Her board is so amply spread. The sharp reef moans and moans, The foam on the sand lies hoar; The 'sea-dog' flickers across the sky, The north wind whistles shrill and high 'Mid the breakers' ominous roar. But on the great pier head, The grey-haired sailors stand, While the black clouds pile away in the west, And the spray flies free from the billow's crest Ere they dash on the hollow sand. Never a sail to be seen On the long grim tossing swell; Only drifting wreckage of canvas and spar, That sweep with the waves o'er the harbour bar, Their terrible tale to tell. Did a vision of Christmas pass Before their drowning eyes? When 'mid rent of rigging and crash of mast, The brave ship, smote by the mighty blast, Went down 'neath the pitiless skies. No Christmas joy I ween On the rock-bound coast may be. Put token and custom of Yule away, While widows and orphans weep and pray For the 'hands lost out at sea.'" Still in the pathetic strain we will give another poem. In quoting this we feel we are not doing full justice to Mrs. Phillips, but it at all events shows her deep devotion to the race she greatly helped in their many trials. THE FISHERMAN'S FUNERAL. "Up on the breezy headland the fisherman's grave they made, Where, over the daisies and clover-bells, the birchen branches swayed; Above us the lark was singing in the cloudless skies of June, And under the cliffs the billows were chanting their ceaseless tune; For the creamy line was curving along the hollow shore, Where the dear old tides were flowing that he would ride no more.