Went the brave Iberia bowling,
Before the break of day,-
When a squall, upon a sudden,
Came o'er the water scudding;
And the clouds began to gather,
And the sea was lashed to lather,
And the lowering thunder grumbled,
And the lightning jumped and tumbled,
And the ship, and all the ocean,
Woke up in wild commotion.

Then the wind set up a howling,
And the poodle dog a yowling,
And the cocks began a crowing,
And the old cow raised a lowing,
As she heard the tempest blowing;
And the fowls and geese did cackle,
And the cordage and the tackle
Began to shriek and crackle;

And the spray dashed o'er the funnels,
And down the deck in runnels;

And the rushing water soaks all,
From the seamen in the fo'ksal
To the stokers, whose black faces
Peer out of their bed-places;
And the captain he was bawling,
And the sailors pulling, hauling,
And the quarter-deck tarpauling
Was shivered in the squalling;
And the passengers awaken,
Most pitifully shaken;

And the steward jumps up, and hastens

For the necessary basins.

Then the Greeks they groaned and quivered,

And they knelt and moaned and shivered,

And the plunging water met them,

And splashed and overset them;

And they called in their emergence

Upon the countless saints and virgins;
And their marrow-bones are bended,
And they think the world is ended.
And the Turkish women for'ard
Were frightened and behorrored;
And, shrieking and bewildering,
The mothers clutched their children;
The men sang "Allah! Illah!
Mashallah Bismillah!"

As the warring waters doused them,
And splashed them and soused them;
And they called upon the Prophet,
Who thought but little of it.

Then all the fleas in Jewry

Jumped up and bit like fury;
And the progeny of Jacob
Did on the main-deck wake up,
(I wot those greasy Rabbins
Would never pay for cabins ;)

And each man moaned and jabbered in

His filthy Jewish gabardine,

In woe and lamentation,

And howling consternation.

And the splashing water drenches

Their dirty brats and wenches;

Aud they crawl from bales and benches,

In a hundred thousand stenches.

This was the white squall famous,

Which latterly o'ercame us,

And which all will remember,

On the 28th of September;

When a Prussian captain of Lancers

(Those tight-laced, whiskered prancers) Came on the deck astonished,

By that wild squall admonished,

And wondering cried, "Potz tausend,
Wie ist der Stürın jetzt brausend?",

And looked at Captain Lewis
Who calmly stood and blew his
Cigar in all the bustle,

And scorned the tempest's tussle.
And oft we've thought hereafter
How he beat the storm to laughter;
For well he knew his vessel

With that vain wind could wrestle;
And when a wreck we thought her,
And doomed ourselves to slaughter,
How gayly he fought her,

And through the hubbub brought her,
And as the tempest caught her,

Cried, "George, some brandy and water!"

And when, its force expended,
The harmless storm was ended,
And as the sunrise splendid

Came blushing o'er the sea,-
I thought as day was breaking,
My little girls were waking,
And smiling and making

A prayer at home for me.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN.

[This pathetic extract from "Arthur Bonnicastle" will be read with deep and tender interest by those who have been called upon to part with their first-born.]

I stand in a darkened room before a little casket that holds the silent form of my first-born. My arm is around the wife and mother who weeps over the lost treasure and cannot, till tears have had their way, be comforted. I had not thought that my child could die-that my child could die. I knew that other children had died, but I felt safe. We laid the little fellow close by his grandfather at last; we strew his grave with flowers, and then return to our saddened home with hearts united in sorrow as they had never been united in joy,

and with sympathies forever opened toward all who are called to a kindred grief.

I wonder where he is to-day, in what mature angelhood he stands, how he will look when I meet him, how he will make himself known to me, who have been his teacher! He was like me: will his grandfather know him? I never can cease thinking of him as cared for and led by the same hand to which my own youthful fingers clung, and as hearing from the fond lips of my own father, the story of his father's eventful life. I feel how wonderful to me has been the ministry of my children-how much more I have learned from them than they have ever learned from me-how by holding my own strong life in sweet subordination to their helplessness, they have taught me patience, self-sacrifice, self-control, truthfulness, faith, simplicity and purity.

Ah! this taking to one's arms a little group of souls, fresh from the hand of God, and living with them in loving companionship through all their stainless years, is, or ought to be, like living in heaven, for of such is the heavenly kingdom. To no one of these am I more indebted than to the boy who went away from us before the world had touched him with a stain. The key that shut him in the tomb was the key that could unlock my heart, and let in among its sympathies the world of sorrowing men and women who mourn because their little ones are not.

The little graves, alas! how many they are! The mourners above them, how vast the multitude! Brothers, sisters, I am one with you. I press your hands, I weep with you, I trust with you, I belong to you. Those waxen, folded hands; that still breast which I have so often pressed warm to my own; those sleep-bound eyes which have been so full of love and life; that sweet, unmoving alabaster face-ah! we have all looked upon them, and they have made us one and made us better. There is no fountain which the angel of healing troubles with his restless and life-giving wings so constantly as the fountain of tears, and only those too lame and bruised to bathe, miss the blessed influence

J. G. HOLLAND.

THE SONG OF THE ROVER.

FROM THE "CORSAIR."

[This picce should be recited in a clear, full, round voice, with a rapid and joyous expression, suggested by the high spirits and sense of freedom" of the Corsair.]

O'er the glad waters of the dark-blue sea,

Our thoughts as boundless and our souls as free,
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam,
Survey our empire, and behold our home!

These are our realms, no limits to their sway,—

Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey.

Ours the wild life in tumult still to range

From toil to rest, and joy in every change.

O, who can tell? not thou, luxurious slave!

Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave;

Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease!

Whom slumber soothes not,-pleasure cannot please.-
O, who can tell save he whose heart hath tried,
And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide,
The exulting sense, the pulse's maddening play,
That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way?
That for itself can woo the approaching fight,