the breast of a wave at the same instant, and falling off with her broadside to the sea, she drove in towards the cliffs like a bubble on the rapids of a cataract.

Our ground-tackle has parted," said Tom, with his resigned patience of manner. undisturbed; "she shall die as easy as man can make her." While he yet spoke he seized the tiller, and gave to the vessel such a direction as would be most likely to cause her to strike the rocks with her bows foremost.

There was, for one moment, an expression of exquisite anguish betrayed in the dark countenance of Barnstable; but at the next it passed away, and he spoke cheerfully to his men—

66

'Be steady, my lads, be calm; there is yet a hope of life for you; our light draught will let us run in close to the cliffs, and it is still falling water. See your boats clear, and be steady."

The crew of the whale-boat, aroused by this speech from a sort of stupor, sprang into their light vessel, which was quickly lowered into the sea, and kept riding on the foam, free from the sides of the schooner, by the powerful exertions of the men. The cry for the coxswain was earnest and repeated, but Tom shook his head without replying, still grasping the tiller, and keeping his eyes steadily bent on the chaos of waters into which they were driving. The launch, the largest boat of the two, was cut loose from the "gripes," and the bustle and exertion of the moment rendered the crew insensible to the horror of the scene that surrounded them. But the loud, hoarse call of the coxswain to "look out-secure your selves!" suspended even their efforts, and at that instant the Ariel settled on a wave that melted from under her, heavily on the rocks. The shock was so violent as to throw all who disregarded the warning cry from their feet, and the universal quiver that pervaded the vessel was like the last shudder of animated nature. For a time long enough to breathe, the least experienced among the men supposed the danger to be past; but a wave of great height followed the one that had deserted them, and raising the vessel again, threw her roughly still farther on the bed of rocks, and at the same time its crest broke over her quarter, sweeping the length of her decks with a fury that was almost resistless. The shuddering seamen beheld their loosened boat driven from their grasp, and dashed against the base of the cliffs, where no fragment of her wreck could be traced at the receding of the waters. But the passing billow had thrown the vessel into a position which, in some measure, protected her decks from the violence of those that succeeded it.

"Go, my boys, go," said Barnstable, as the moment of dreadful uncertainty passed; "you

359

have still the whale-boat, and she at least will take you nigh the shore. Go into her, my boys. God bless you-God bless you all! You have been faithful and honest fellows, and I believe he will not yet desert you; go, my friends, while there is a lull.”

The seamen threw themselves in a mass into the light vessel, which nearly sank under the unusual burden; but when they looked around them, Barnstable and Merry, Dillon and the coxswain, were yet to be seen on the decks of the Ariel. The former was pacing, in deep and perhaps bitter melancholy, the wet planks of the schooner, while the boy hung, unheeded, on his arm, uttering disregarded petitions to his commander to desert the wreck. Dillon approached the side where the boat lay again and again, but the threatening countenances of the seamen as often drove him back in despair. Tom had seated himself on the heel of the bowsprit, where he continued in an attitude of quiet resignation, returning no other answers to the loud and repeated calls of his shipmates than by waving his hand toward the shore.

"Now hear me," said the boy, urging his request to tears; "if not for my sake, or for your own sake, Mr. Barnstable, or for the hope of heaven's mercy, go into the boat for the love of my cousin Katherine."

The young lieutenant paused in his troubled walk, and for a moment he cast a glance of hesitation at the cliffs; but at the next instant his eyes fell on the ruin of his vessel, and he answered

"Never, boy, never. If my hour has come, I will not shrink from my fate."

"Listen to the men, dear sir; the boat will be swamped alongside the wreck, and their cry is that without you they will not let her go."

Barnstable motioned to the boat to bid the boy enter it, and turned away in silence.

"Well," said Merry, with firmness, "if it be right that a lieutenant shall stay by the wreck, it must also be right for a midshipman. Shove off; neither Mr. Barnstable nor myself will quit the vessel."

"Boy, your life has been entrusted to my keeping, and at my hands will it be required," said his commander, lifting the struggling youth, and tossing him into the arms of the seamen. "Away with ye; there is more weight in you now than can go safe to land."

Still the scamen hesitated, for they perceived the coxswain moving with a steady tread along the deck, and they hoped that he had relented, and would yet persuade the lieutenant to join his crew. But Tom, imitating the example of his commander, seized the latter suddenly in his powerful grasp, and threw him over the

361

THE

HONOUR'D be the hero evermore

Who at mercy's call has nobly died; Echoed be his name from shore to shore,

With immortal chronicles allied! Verdant be the turf upon his dust,

Bright the sky above, and soft the air.
In the grove set up his marble bust,

And with garland crown it, fresh and fair.
In melodious numbers, that shall live
With the music of the rolling spheres,
Let the minstrel's inspiration give

His eulogium to the future years.
Not the victor in his country's cause,

Not the chief who leaves a people free, Not the framer of a nation's laws

Shall deserve a greater fame than he. Hast thou heard, in Rome's declining day, How a youth, by Christian zeal impell'd, Swept the sanguinary games away Which the Coliseum once beheld? Fill'd with gazing thousands were the tiers, With the city's chivalry and pride, When two gladiators, with their spears, Forward sprang from the arena's side. Rang the dome with plaudits loud and long As, with shields advanced, the athletes stood. Was there no one in that eager throng

To denounce the spectacle of blood? Ay, Telemachus, with swelling frame,

Saw the inhuman sport renew'd once more. Few among the crowd could tell his name, For a cross was all the badge he wore. Yet, with heart elate and god-like mien Stepp'd he forth upon the circling sand,

66

And, while all were wond'ring at the scene,
Check'd the encounter with a daring hand.
"Romans," cried he, "let this reeking sod
Never more with human blood be stain'd,
Let no image of the living God

In unhallow'd combat be profaned!
Ah! too long has this colossal dome

Fail'd to sink, and hide your brutal shows.
Here, I call upon assembled Rome,

Now to swear they shall for ever close!"
Parted thus, the combatants, with joy,
'Mid the tumult found the means to fly.
In the arena stood the undaunted boy,
And, with looks adoring, gazed on high.
Peal'd the shout of wrath on every side,

Every hand was eager to assail.
"Slay him! Slay!" a hundred voices cried,
Wild with fury. But he did not quail.
Hears he, as, entranced, he looks above,

Strains celestial, that the menace drown.
Sees he angels, with their eyes of love,

Beckoning to him with a martyr's crown. Fiercer swell'd the people's frantic shout, Launch'd against him flew the stones like rain. Death and terror circled him about;

But he stood and perish'd-not in vain :
Not in vain the youthful martyr fell,
Then and there he crush'd a bloody creed,
And his high example shall impel

Future heroes to as great a deed.
Stony answers yet remain for those
Who would question and precede the time.
In their season may they meet their foes,
Like Telemachus, with front sublime.

The Earl of Essex, after his return from the fortunate expedition against Cadiz, observing the increase of the queen's fond attachment towards him, took occasion to regret that the necessity of her service required him often to be absent from her person, and exposed him to all those ill offices which his enemies, more assiduous in their attendance, could employ against him. She was moved with this tender jealousy, and making him the present of a ring, desired him to keep that pledge of her affection, and assured him that into whatever disgrace he should fall, whatever preju

him, yet if he sent her that ring, she would immediately, upon sight of it, recall her former tenderness, would afford him a patient hearing, and would lend a favourable ear to his apology. Essex, notwithstanding all his misfortunes, reserved this precious gift to the last extremity; but after his trial and condemnation, he resolved to try the experiment, and he committed the ring to the Countess of Nottingham, whom he desired to deliver it to the queen. The countess was prevailed on by her husband, the mortal enemy of Essex, not to execute the commission; and Elizabeth, who still expected that her favourite would make this last appeal to her tenderness, and who ascribed the neglect of it to his invincible

obstinacy, was, after much delay and many internal combats, pushed by resentment and policy to sign the warrant for his execution. The Countess of Nottingham falling into sickness, and affected with the near approach of death, was seized with remorse for her conduct; and having obtained a visit from the queen, she craved her pardon, and revealed to her the fatal secret. The queen, astonished with this incident, burst into a furious passion; she shook the dying countess in her bed; and crying to her that God might pardon her, but she never could, she broke from her, and thenceforth resigned herself over to the deepest and most incurable melancholy. She rejected all consolation: she even refused food and sustenance; and, throwing herself on the floor, she remained sullen and immovable, feeding her thoughts on her afflictions, and declaring life and existence an insufferable burden to her. Few words she uttered, and they were all expressive of some inward grief which she cared not to reveal; but sighs and groans were the chief vent which she gave to her despondency, and which, though they discovered her sorrows, were never able to ease or assuage them. Ten days and nights she lay upon the carpet, leaning on cushions which her maids brought her; and her physicians could not persuade her to allow herself to be put to bed, much less to make trial of any remedies which they prescribed to her. Her anxious mind at last had so long preyed on her frail body, that her end was visibly approaching; and the council being assembled, sent the keeper, admiral, and secretary, to know her will with regard to her successor. She answered with a faint voice that as she had held a regal sceptre, she desired no other than a royal successor. Cecil requesting her to explain herself more particularly, she subjoined that she would have a king to succeed her; and who should that be but her nearest kinsman, the King of Scots ? Being then advised by the Archbishop of Canterbury to fix her thoughts upon God, she replied that she did so, nor did her mind in the least wander from Him. Her voice soon after left her; her senses failed; she fell into a lethargic slumber, which continued some hours, and she expired gently, without farther struggle or convulsion (March 24), in the seventieth year of her age and forty-fifth of her reign.

come all prejudices; and obliging her detractors to abate much of their invectives, and her admirers somewhat of their panegyrics, have at last, in spite of political factions, and what is more, of religious animosities, produced a uniform judg ment with regard to her conduct. Her vigour, her constancy, her magnanimity, her penetration, vigilance, and address, are allowed to merit the highest praises, and appear not to have been surpassed by any person that ever filled a throne: a conduct less rigorous, less imperious, more sincere, more indulgent to her people, would have been requisite to form a perfect character. By the force of her mind she controlled all her more active and stronger qualities, and prevented them from running into excess: her heroism was exempt from temerity, her frugality from avarice, her friendship from partiality, her active temper from turbulency and a vain ambition: she guarded not herself with equal care or equal success from lesser infirmities: the rivalship of beauty, the desire of admiration, the jealousy of love, and the sallies of anger.

Her singular talents for government were founded equally on her temper and on her capacity. Endowed with a great command over herself, she soon obtained an uncontrolled ascendant over her people; and while she merited all their esteem by her real virtues, she also engaged their affections by her pretended ones. Few sovereigns of Eng

land succeeded to the throne in more difficult cir cumstances; and none ever conducted the govern ment with such uniform success and felicity. Though unacquainted with the practice of toleration-the true secret for managing religious factions-she preserved her people, by her superior prudence, from those confusions in which theo logical controversy had involved all the neighbouring nations; and though her enemies were the most powerful princes of Europe, the most active, the most enterprising, the least scrupulous, she was able by her vigour to make deep impressions on their states; her own greatness meanwhile remained untouched and unimpaired.

The wise ministers and brave warriors who flourished under her reign, share the praise of her success; but instead of lessening the applause due to her, they make great addition to it. They owed, all of them, their advancement to her choice; they were supported by her constancy, and with all their abilities, they were Lever able to acquire any undue ascendant over her. In her family, in her court, in her kingdom, she remained equally mistress; the force of the tender passions was great over her, but the force of her mind was still superior; and the combat which her victory visibly cost her, serves only to display the firmness of her resolution, and the loftiness of her ambitious sentiments.

The fame of this princess, though it has sur

mounted the prejudices both of faction and bigotry, yet lies still exposed to another prejudice, which is more durable because more natural, and which, according to the different views in which we survey her, is capable either of exalting beyond measure or diminishing the lustre of her character. This prejudice is founded on the consideration of her sex. When we contemplate her as a woman, we are apt to be struck with the highest admiration of her great qualities and extensive capacity; but we are also apt to require some more softness

363

of disposition, some greater lenity of temper, some of those amiable weaknesses by which her sex is distinguished. But the true method of estimating her merit is to lay aside all these considerations, and consider her merely as a rational being placed in authority, and entrusted with the government of mankind. We may find it difficult to reconcile our fancy to her as a wife or a mistress; but her qualities as a sovereign, though with some considerable exceptions, are the object of undisputed applause and approbation.

[H. W. LONGFELLOW. N that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware's waters, Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apostle,

Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded,

There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of beauty, And the streets still re-echo the names of the trees of the forest,

As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose haunts they molested. There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile,

Finding among the children of Penn a home and a country.

There old René Leblanc had died; and when he departed,

Saw at his side only one of all his hundred descendants.

Something at least there was in the friendly

streets of the city,

Something that spake to her heart, and made her no longer a stranger;

And her car was pleased with the Thee and Thou of the Quakers,

For it recalled the past, the old Acadian country, Where all men were equal, and all were brothers and sisters.

So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed endeavour,

Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, uncomplaining,

Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her thoughts and her footsteps.

As from a mountain's top the rainy mists of the morning

FOUND.

See Page 14, Vol. I.]

Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape below us,

Sun illumined, with shining rivers and cities and hamlets,

So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the world far below her,

Dark no longer, but all illumined with love; and the pathway

Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and fair in the distance.

Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was his image,

Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld him,

Only more beautiful made by his deathlike silence

and absence.

Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it was not.

Over him years had no power; he was not

changed, but transfigured;

He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not absent;

Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others,

This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her.

So was her love diffused, but like to some odorous spices,

Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air with aroma.

Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow

Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour.

Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy; frequenting

Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the city,

Where distress and want concealed themselves from the sunlight,

Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected.