“No crown upon her comely head she bore, No wreath her affluent tresses to restrain; A smile the only ornament she wore, Her only gem a tear for others' pain. Herself did not her own mishaps deplore, Because she lives immortal as the dew, Which falling from the stars soon mounts again; And in this wise all space she travels through, Beneficent as heaven, and to the earth more true. “Her blessings all may win who seek the prize, If only they be faithful, meek, and strong, And crave not that which others' right denies, But march against the citadel of wrong. A glorious army this, that finds allies Wherever God hath built the heart of man With attributes that to Himself belong; By Him ordained to crown what He began, And shatter despotism, which is the foul fiend's ban.” Frank thought that he had never heard nobler reading, sonorous, clear, well timed, well poised, and of harmonious cadence. The curved rock gave a melodious ring, and the husky waves a fine contrast to it, while the reader was so engrossed with grandeur--the grandeur of Frank's own mind!--that his hat could evidently not contain his head, but was flung at the mercy of his feet. What a fine, expressive, and commanding face! If Frank Darling had been a Frenchman--which he sometimes longed to be, for the sake of that fair Liberty--the scene, instead of being awkward, would have been elegant, rapturous, ennobling. But being of the clumsy English race, he was quite at a loss what to do with himself. On paper he could be effusive, ardent, eloquent, sentimental; but not a bit of that to meet the world in his own waistcoat. He gave a swing to his stick, and walked across the opening as if he were looking at sea-gulls. And on he would have walked without further notice, except a big gulp in his throat, if it had not been for a trifling accident. Somehow or other the recitative gentleman's hat turned over to the wind, and that active body (which never neglects any sportive opportunity) got into the crown, with the speed of an upstart, and made off with it along the stones. A costly hat it was, and comely with rich braid and satin loops, becoming also to a well-shaped head, unlike the chimney-pot of the present day, which any man must thank God for losing. However, the owner was so wrapped up in poetry that his breeches might have gone without his being any wiser. “Sir,” said Frank Darling, after chasing the hat (which could not trundle as our pots do, combining every possible absurdity), “excuse me for interrupting you, but this appears to be your hat, and it was on its way to a pool of salt-water.”