The rolling hearse that bears to some far strand
A lifeless load, or shipwreck'd corse, or bark
Shatter'd, dead bird or branch! Yea, still to land
The sea brings back earth's dead. Life's soul-less ark!
But JESUS thro' the waves, above the dark
Upbears the sinking Christian in his hand!

II:

Yet, nor the sea, nor life, are always bearers,
Of death-wan passengers of sin-blind guests-
Both have their bless'd ventures, faithful breasts,
In home-returning vessels-safe wayfarers
Amid strong surges! Let us then be sharers
Of cheerful hopes, what time the ocean wrests

Our thoughts from shore. All God's bright world attests,
That, tho' its inmates are the constant wearers
Of raiment, dyed in sweat and blood and pain,
Life hath not death but life for goal! and so
We should not drop our tears of hopeless woe
On the corpse-carrying coursers of the main,
But smile to see it, knowing it to be

A type of life and of eternity!

SLINGSBY.-They are by no means to be despised, Anthony; there is a good deal of boldness and vigour about them, and a certain earnestness of feeling and freshness of fancy that I like. To a thoughtful mind and an imaginative spirit, there can be no finer subject of inspiration than the "deep and dark blue ocean." Vast, fathomless, mysterious, and sublime, it fills the mind with images of awe and wonder, and suggests a thousand grand, bold, and pathetic pictures in the history of humanity and nature. Witness the sublime descriptions of David and of Job, the magnificent hymn of Byron, and the touching pictures of Falconer.

POPLAR. And here comes opportunely enough a sonnet to illustrate your observations:

A STORM AT SEA.

Down springs the hawk-winged tempest from his lair,

Upon the slumbering sea.

With wild delight

Old Ocean greets the summons to prepare,

And rouses all his horrors for the fight.
Oh! woe to man, who stands on such a night
'Tween two such foes! The flying clouds descend,
And shroud the combatants from every sight,
While, hoarse and loud, their rival thunders blend.
Up leaps the angry wave; but back again
The storm-king hurls it with a hollow crash,
And sweeps
it o'er the bosom of the main,
Panting and hissing 'neath the mighty lash.
Unconquered still, it dashes on the shore,

But the old cliff stands firm amid its dying roar !

Now, I pronounce this to be a very fine composition, full of life and power. The imagery is all forcible and vivid. It is such a picture as Stanfield or Turner might be proud to create with their pencils.

BISHOP.-I am a pretty hand at a brush myself, and could knock you up a hurly burly, or a storm of thunder and lightning, in no time; and I declare I could not desire a better inspiration than these lines.

POPLAR. Here is something more upon the aqueous element; shall we essay it?

BISHOP.-Upon conditions, Anthony, upon conditions. I am a temperate man; temperate in water as in everything else; ne quid nimis, sir, is my motto. I have stood firm during all the mutations of quackery; I put faith neither in

the water cure nor the brandy cure, but I have a strong idea that the true sanative specific consists in a due admixture of both; so push me over the flask, old fellow, and then I shall not be afraid of all your Naiads. "Veritas in puteo" is an old adage; but if Truth be found in a well, it is because there is then a "spirit” in the water.

POPLAR.-Oh! what a villanous play upon spirit.

BISHOP.-Jeu d'esprit, you mean, I suppose, Anthony?

POPLAR.-Worse and worse; hold your tongue and listen. (Reads) :

Well, what say ye, my masters?

SLINGSBY. It is well enough, Anthony. Pretty thoughts and prettily expressed. It is fluent and unforced, without any ambitious struggle to achieve great things. I would not that it were unread. The warblings of the finch and redbreast are sweet to listen to, though they may not compare with the wondrous song of the high-soaring lark, or the gushing melody of the nightingale. Proceed, my dear Anthony.

POPLAR.-Bless me what a fragrant odour exhales around. There is surely something within this envelope worth rifling. Ah! "Roses," and culled by a

son of the land of song. The land of Burns, and Hogg, and Cunningham, and Ramsay. Hear how our "auld friend," Willie Forsyth,sings :

Now that's what I call a very sweet song and a very good sermon. know, Anthony, I'm rather an epicure about sermons.

Do you

SLINGSBY.-Ha! ha! ha! No doubt you are hard to be pleased in such

matters.

BISHOP.-Faith I'm serious; I've a weakly stomach, and can't bear very strong food, or a great deal of it, at a time. There's Cuffcushion always turns me inside out, and I'm sure to be ill for a week after I hear him. He has a terrible way of stirring you up, and speaking truths in a very plain, disagreeable

manner. Such things, I must say, are unpalatable at best, and if they must be administered, let it be, like strong medicines, in small doses, and if possible, in a conserve of roses. But I see Jonathan looking grave, so go on, my dear Anthony.

POPLAR.-Forsyth, again. Shall we give him a hearing?

SLINGSBY.-By all means. I will stand godfather to him, and promise that his lines will reward you for the trouble of reading a most abominably cramped hand.

POPLAR.-There is an introduction in prose. Shall we have it?

BISHOP.-Well, I suppose we must, though I hate a flourish of trumpets.
POPLAR. (Reads) :—

"The vineyards of Israel have ceased to exist, but the eternal law enjoins on the children of Israel still to celebrate the vintage.

"There is something profoundly interesting in this devoted observance of oriental customs in the heart of our Saxon and Sclavonian cities, in the descendants of the Bedooins, who conquered Canaan more than three thousand years ago, still celebrating that success which procured their fathers, for the first time, grapes and wine. "The Hebrew in London rises in the morning, goes to some Whitechapel market, purchases some willow boughs, for which he has previously given a commission, and which are brought probably from one of the neighbouring rivers of Essex; hastens home, cleans out the yard of his miserable tenement, builds his bower, decks it even profusely with the finest fruits and flowers that he can procure-the myrtle and the citron never forgotten— and hangs its roof with variegated lamps. After service in his synagogue he sups late with his wife and his children in the open air, as if he were in the villages of Gallilee, beneath its quiet and starry skies."—D' Israeli.

There's a home to the eastern pagan, Though he kneel to stock and stone; Each Christian race

Have their dwelling-place,

But the people of God have none.

For lo! like our pilgrim fathers,
Through the wilderness we stray;
But there is none,

Like Amram's son,

To guide our weary way.

Yet bring me the boughs, my children,
And we'll sing Jehovah's praise,
For the home to come,

The home to come,

In the land of ancient days.

Our voices in loud hosannas,
Oh, my sweet ones, let us join,
To praise the hand

That fills the land

With corn, and oil, and wine.

The palm tree waves by Parphar,
Under Hermon's gladsome hill;
In Juda's clime,

Of summer time
The vine is purpling still.

Damascus hath rainbow gardens,
That are blooming like the rose!
And there this hour,

The sacred bower

Is built of living boughs.

And these are but fading branches;

Yet they bring from their old abode
The bliss

Of a lingering loveliness,

And the fragrant breath of God.

Then bring me the boughs, my children, While your mother is twining flowers; And sing me a lay

Of the ancient day,

To lighten our pilgrim hours.

We will welcome the glowing vintage,
As our fathers did of old,