The vessel sinks;--her latest breath Hurls through the cannons' mouth of death Defiance at the traitor foes! O'er guns the throttling waters close-- The hungry wave devours the brave-- The gallant crew of Cumberland! No sailor yields; they gladly die; Above them still the colors fly! High o'er the black and surging flood, That reels as drunk with patriots' blood, Those glorious bars and Freedom's stars Float o'er the sunken Cumberland! Deeds like these will live forever-- Loyal hearts forget them never! Hark! echoes from the brave and free, Greet us from far Thermopylae: All time shall ring while bards shall sing The Martyrs of the Cumberland! In Glory's sky, 'mid heroes bright, Immortal galaxy of light, Through future ages shall they be, The _Color Bearers_ of the Free! The sleeping brave, in ocean's wave, Who manned the Frigate Cumberland. Our monthly will enter many a home during the coming holidays--the eight days consecrated to the memory of the most sublime record in the history of mankind, the union of the Divine with the human, the introduction of a human heart into the impenetrable but truly philosophical mystery of the Trinity. Do we ever sufficiently realize the duties which this marvellous union has enjoined upon us, the privileges with which it has endowed us? We shall enter many a home--some joyous with the mirth of children, the hopefulness of youth, the serene happiness of useful and contented men and women;--some shadowed by recent sorrow, where perhaps patriots, as in the olden time, learn to endure for the sake of a beloved country;--or others, perchance, where worldliness, discord, and egotism have severed hearts that should be united. God grant the number of the latter may be few! Happy should we be, could we know that our arrival would bring one more smile to the lips of the gay, a single ray of support or consolation to the souls of the sorrowing--could we cause the world-worn to dream of better and brighter things than mere matter can ever afford, give the thinker a pregnant thought, soothe earth's weary art-children with the hope of wider comprehension and sympathy, lead the rich to open upward paths to their poorer brethren, or the poor nobly to bear or to better their humble condition--in a word, could we offer but single drops of that wine of immortal life for which every human soul is thirsting. Frost and cold now are upon us; Christmas passing with its typal evergreens and mystic chants; the old year dying fast with its weird secrets buried until the Day of Doom; the New Year close upon us, with its demands and duties. May the Heavenly Father bless its fleeting hours, and enable us to sow them closely with the precious seeds of good deeds,--germs to blossom on the Eternal Shore! AMERICAN THANKSGIVING DAY IN LONDON. NOVEMBER 25, 1863.