As if they wept in heaven the approaching doom,
And dropped their tears o'er that untimely tomb!
The warm hand pressed with many a generous token,
The long embrace once q'er, and farewell spoken,
The buoyant boat swift leaves the crowded shore;
To gaze on forms they shall behold no more,
Upon the deck, friends strain their anxious eyes,
Till evening drops her curtain o'er the skies.
Now o'er the waters, where the wanderers sleep,
Went forth that train upon the treacherous deep;
They thought of friends to whom they would return,
Nor thought, alas! those friends so soon would mourn.
In blissful dreams they think no more they roam,
But tread again the happy halls of home;
Childhood and age, and beauty brightly blest,
Thoughtless of danger on the dark wave rest;
When, lo! there comes upon the ear a cry,

And the word" Fire!" sweeps roaring through the sky;
The red flames flash upon the rolling flood,
Till the wide waters seem one sea of blood;
On the cold blast dread Azrael comes in ire,
Waves his dark wings, and fans the fearful fire;
Wild o'er the deck, and with disheveled hair,
Rush the sad victims, shrieking in despair:
"Where is my son ?" the frantic father cries,
And "Where my sire ?" the weeping son replies.
Amid that scene of terror and alarms,

Dear woman, wailing, throws her ivory arms;
And shall she perish? nay, one effort saves-
Quick, launch the boats upon the boiling waves;-
They're lost! O God! they sink to rise no more!
A hundred voices mingle in one roar.
From post to post the affrighted victims fly,
While the red flames illumine sea and sky;
The piteous look of infancy appeals

For help, but oh! what heart in danger feels?
None save a mother's; see her clasp her boy!
Floating she looks to find her second joy;
She sees him now, and with a transport wild,
"Save! save! oh, save!" she cries, "my drowning child!"
She lifts her arms, and in the next rude wave
The mother and her children find a grave;
Locked in her arms her boy sinks down to rest,
His head he pillows on her clay-cold breast;
A mother's love not death itself can part,
She hugs her dying children to her heart;
And fain would perish more than once to save
Her blooming boys from ocean's awful grave.
A sail! a sail! a hundred voices rave-
In the dim distance, on the brilliant wave,

She comes, and hope cheers up those hearts again,
They shall be saved-alas! that hope is vain!
The dastard wretch beholds the imploring crew,
Looks on the blazing boat, then bids adieu;
Leaves them to perish in a watery grave,
Rather than stretch his coward hand to save.
Go, thou inhuman being; be thy name

A demon's watchword, and the mark of shame;
Go teach the tiger what to thee is given,
And be the scoff of man, the scorn of heaven;
Be all those mourning mothers' tears thy own,
Till human feelings melt thy heart of stone!

Now o'er the ice-cold sea the victims swim,
Their limbs are helpless, and their eyes grow dim;
With cries for help they yield their lingering breath,
As one by one they close their eyes in death;
The blazing wreck a moment shines more bright,
One cry is heard, she sinks, and all is night.

The moon hath set-a darkness shrouds the lee,
No voice is heard upon that moonless sea;
Soft pity spreads her wings upon the gale,
And few are left to tell the dreadful tale.

From down-beds warm, and from their joyous sleep,
Full many an eye afar shall wake to weep;
Full many a heart a hapless parent mourn,
From friends and home, alas! untimely torn.

THE DYING CHRISTIAN.-ALEXANDER POPE.

РРРР

Vital spark of heavenly flame,
Quit, O quit this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,
Oh! the pain, the bliss of dying.
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life!

Hark! they whisper: angels say,
"Sister spirit, come away."
What is this absorbs me quite,
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirit, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?

The world recedes; it disappears!
Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears
With sounds seraphic ring!

Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O grave! where is thy victory?
O death! where is thy sting?

SPIKE THAT GUN.

The great struggle for victory on the heights of Inkerman was decided by a young officer bravely carrying out an order to spike a gun that was sweeping down the troops with its shot and shell. The battery had to be approached with great care, or the attacking party would be swept away before ever the gun could be reached. The officer in command led his men under the cover of some rising ground, and then waited his opportunity to face the battery. At first, a brother officer who accompanied the party said that it was perfect madness to attempt an attack, and the men began to feel that it was charging into the arms of death; but the officer who had received the order to spike the gun was determined to carry it out or die in the attempt, and addressing his small party, said: “If no man will stand by me, I shall go alone. Who'll volunteer?" and immediately he went out from the shelter of the rising ground where he had halted his men, and faced the battery. No sooner did the men see his brave determination to carry out his instructions than they rushed to the front, and with a victorious shout took the battery and spiked the gun. That brave deed turned the battle scales to victory in favor of the British. The Russians lost all heart when the battery, which had done such deadly mischief to the troops all that fearful day, was silenced and the gun spiked.

The great conflict between good and evil is still.raging. Year after year rolls on, and the deadly strife continues. The ranks have been thinned, gaps made, homes desolated, families broken up, and thousands have passed away. One of the great (if not the greatest) difficulties in the progress of every good work is drink. It is one of the most prolific sources of evil that the civilized world has seen. It baffles our legislators. It startles the Church. It blights the progress of Christianity. It hinders the advance of missions. It degrades our army, and is found to be the chief agent in supplying pauperdom with starving beggars; mad-houses with the insane, and orphanages with the fatherless. Crime is fed by it; jails, reformatories, and penitentiaries are crowded

with its victims. Men have lost their honesty, and women their virtue, through the effects of drink. Good has been weakened, evil has been strengthened, by the baneful influence of drink.

Whether we speak of high or low, the educated or ignorant, the wealthy or poor, from each drink has claimed its victims, and scattered seeds of misery in all ranks, which have produced a sad harvest of wretchedness, woe, and death, sufficient for us to point out the danger in which every good work is placed, so long as that infernal weapon of evil is belching forth its deadly missiles against those enterprises which are making war upon sin, and the enormous disadvantage at which they war, so long as drink is allowed to decimate their ranks and destroy their hopes of success. For the sake of all that's good and true on earth, we raise the cry: Spike that gun!

JOHN AND TIBBIE DAVISON'S DISPUTE.
ROBERT LEIGHTON.

John Davison and Tibbie, his wife,
Sat toasting their taes ae nicht,
When something startit in the fluir,
And blinkit by their sicht.

"Guidwife," quoth John, " did ye see that moose?

Whar sorra was the cat?"

"A moose?" "Aye, a moose.”

"Na, na, guidman,

It was'na a moose, 'twas a rat."

"Ow, ow, guidwife, to think ye've been

Sae lang aboot the hoose,

An' no to ken a moose frae a rat!

Yon was'na a rat! 'twas a moose."

"I've seen mair mice than you, guidman-
An' what think ye o' that?

Sae haud your tongue an say nae mair
I tell ye, it was a rat."

"Me haud my tongue for you, guidwife !
I'll be mester of this hoose-

I saw't as plain as een could seet,"
An' I tell ye, it was a moose!

"If you're the mester o' the hoose
It's I'm the mistress o't;

An' Iken best what's in the hoose,

Sae I tell ye, it was a rat."

"Weel, weel, guidwife, gae mak' the brose,
An' ca' it what ye please."

So up she rose, and made the brose,
While John sat toasting his taes.

They supit, and supit, and supit the brose,
And aye their lips played smack;
They supit, and supit, and supit the brose,
Till their lugs began to crack.

"Sic fules we were to fa' oot, guidwife,
Aboot a moose--" "A what?
It's a lee ye tell, an' I say again,
It was'na a moose, 'twas a rat!"

"Wad ye ca' me a leear to my very face?
My faith, but ye craw croose!

I tell ye, Tib, I never will bear't

"Twas a moose!"""Twas a rat!" ""Twas a moose!"

Wi' her spoon she strack him ower the pow→

แ "Ye dour auld doit, tak' that;

Gae to your bed, ye canker'd sumph

'Twas a rat!" "Twas a moose!"""Twas a rat!"

She sent the brose caup at his heels,
As he hirpled ben the hoose;

Yet he shoved oot his head as he steekit the door,
And cried, ""Twas a moose! 'twas a moose!"

But when the carle was fast asleep

She paid him back for that,

And roared into his sleepin' lug,

""Twas a rat! 'twas a rat! 'twas a rat!"

The de'il be wi me if I think

It was a beast ava!

Neist mornin', as she sweepit the fluir,

She faund wee Johnnie's ba'!

WHISTLING IN HEAVEN.

You're surprised that I ever should say so?
Just wait till the reason I've given
Why I say I shan't care for the music,
Unless there is whistling in heaven.