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THE GRAVE AT SPITZBERGEN.

HALF imbedded in the black moss at his feet, there lay a grey deal coffin, falling to pieces with age, the lid was gone, blown off probably by the wind, and within, were stretched the bleaching bones of a human skeleton. A rude cross at the head of the grave still stood partially upright, and a half-obliterated Dutch inscription preserved a record of the dead man's name and age, Vander Schelling Comman Jacob Moor, ob. 2 June, 1758; æt. 44.-Letters from High Latitudes.

ABOVE, the vast eternal snows,

The glaciers' icy peaks,

Touch'd with pale tints of blue and rose,
When the short sunbeam breaks.

Below, the land-lock'd quiet bay,
The black rocks stretching far,
And the great ice-floes out at sea
That beat against the bar.

No sound along the wide snow plains,
No echo on the deep,

But nature ever more remains

Wrapp'd in a breathless sleep.

No blade of grass waves in the air
Along the ghastly hill,-

Caught by the marvellous silence there
The very streams stand still.
Never to fall, each frozen river
Hangs o'er the sheer descent,
Like wishes unfulfill'd forever,

Or words that find no vent.
Only at times, from some ice-rock,
A glacier breaks away,
And startles with a thunder-shock
The mountain and the bay.

O frozen cliffs! O motionless snow!
We glide into the creek,
And question of your grim repose,
The lips that will not speak.
In your cold beauty, vast and drear,
Ye lie so still and grand;
But no heart-stirrings meet us here—
Unsympathizing strand!

No sound in all this sparkling waste,
No voice in heaven above,-
To some strange region have we past,
Beyond the reach of love?

Ah no! some link there needs must be
Where Christian foot has trod,
Of the great chain of sympathy
'Twixt man and man, and God.
And lo! there lie a dead man's bones
Uncover'd, where we tread,

An open coffin 'mid the stones,
A rude cross at his head.

The wild white cliffs-the vast still main,-
The patch of scant black moss;
But still the form to rise again,
And still the letter'd cross.

And he whom tender Christian hands
Laid on this barbarous coast,

Who knoweth from what happier lands,
Or by what fortune tost?
Whether 'mid Amsterdam's brown piles,
His stone-prest grave should be,
Where washes round her many isles,
The azure Zuyder Zee.

Or by some vast cathedral wall

His fathers laid them down,

Where chimes are rung, and shadows fall,
In an old Flemish town.

Or whether 'neath some village turf
Where children come to weep,
And lighter treads the unletter'd serf,
He should have gone to sleep.

To drone of bees and summer gnats
In some great linden-tree,

Where the old Rhine, through fertile flats,
Goes sobbing to the sea.

What matter-though these frozen stones Their burden could not bear,

But gave again his coffin'd bones

Into the freezing air.

Though here to snows and storms exposed
They bleach'd a hundred years,
Never by human hand composed,
Nor wet with human tears.

Though only the shy reindeer made
In the black moss a trace,

Or the white bears came out and play'd
In sunshine by the place.

Still, silent from the blacken'd heath
Rose that eternal sign,

Memorial of a human death,
And of a love Divine.

Still, type of triumph and of woe,
Symbol of hope and shame,
It told the everlasting snow

That single Christian name.
Sleep on poor wanderer of the main,
Who camest here to die,

No mother's hand to soothe thy pain,
No wife to close thine eye.
Sleep well in thy vast sepulchre,
Far from our cares and fears,
The great white hills that never stir,

Have watch'd thee round for years.
The skies have lit thee with their sheen,
Or wrapt in leaden gloom;
The glaciers' splinter'd peaks have been
The pillars of thy tomb.

Did well those men who came of old
From Holland o'er the wave,

And left the simple cross that told
It was a Christian's grave.
Did well those men from o'er the sea,
Who witness'd in this place

The resurrection mystery.

And our dear Saviour's grace.

Who taught us at this solemn tryste
On the bleak North Sea shore,
That the Redeeming love of Christ
Is with us evermore..

-Dublin University Magazine.

C. F. A.

A FUNERAL CROSSING A STREAM.

"When thou walkest through the waters, I will be with thee."

On the hill a little cottage chamber,

With a coffin placed upon the bed

In the glen, a wild stream in the Autumn,
Rushing o'er the stones with angry tread.

Of texts that are sweeter than anthems
In any cathedral chanted,
Go rolling along the deepest recesses
Of poor hearts sorrow-haunted,
And the old man findeth peace!

And as the robin sang up in the tree,
The ransom'd spirit sings on forever-

The old woman, at last, has heard the music of Only a music of deeper meaning,

heaven

'Neath the white curtain in the silent room, Has heard the music of heaven come rolling

grandly,

Come rolling grandly through the curtain'd gloom.

The old man has seen that smile of wonderful beauty

Fix on the face so fair, when pain is o'er,That smile of wonderful beauty, as if the spirit Had found the Some One it was waiting for. Now o'er the Death-sheet, old man, thy snowy hair be bow'd,

And put thy white lips down a little unto the white, white shroud;

And mutter something for a moment, as low as low may be,

Of births, and deaths, and marriages, and what she was to thee

And pray that the broken links of your forty years and seven

May be forged into a silver chain in the depths of yonder heaven,

That shall wind you round and round,
Ensainted and encrown'd

So long as they fling their diadems
Where the great Thrice Holies pass,

Only a music of purer rejoicing:

The music they sing, who once have been sinful,

The music they sing, who once have known

sorrow;

But who now are both sinless, and tearless forever!

And so the coffin cross'd the waters,-
So the spirit crossed the waves of death,-
So it crossed the cold and gloomy water
With everlasting arms around it-
The everlasting arms of Christ.
And as the text from the Apocalypse
Fell sweeter than anthems among the limes,
So the things that the soul of the ransom'd
Hath now to sing and to say,

Fell sweet on the ears of the bless'd.
Go home, old man, from the lime-tree walk
And step back again o'er the driving flood,
And walk on in silence along the lane
Where the robin sings in the rubied haws;
And sit down again in the lonely room-
They will lead forth another funeral soon,
Down the lane, and over the stream,
And on to the grave in the lime-tree walk;
And is this a thing to weep for?

W. ALEXANDER

So long as the music of harps is rolling-Dublin University Magazine.
Across the sea of glass-

Then, go out and weep, old man!

Down the hill the solemn funeral passes,
And the old man paces on before;
And you hear the plunging of the waters
In the glen, the echo and the roar.

Through the lane the bearers are passing, and solemnly

Strikes on their ear the bell with many a pause; And that sweet singer of central Autumn, the robin

The robin shakes his red breast o'er the haws. Presently comes his little outbursting of music, That at a funeral sounds more strange than sweet,

To think that the tiny bird should be singing, and singing,

With grander music frozen at his feet.
Now to the wild brook come they, swollen with

October rain,

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No. 764.-15 January, 1859.—Third Series, No.:42.

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POETRY.-Can this be Christmas-Time? 130. Implora Pace, 130. Disillusion, 165.

SHORT ARTICLES.-Was Washington a Marshal of France? 161. The Proposal, 161. Brougham, 165. A Telegraph in Asia, 170. The Foremothers of Philadelphia, 177. Jerrold, 185. Going the Whole Hog, 192.

PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY

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For Six Dollars a year, remitted directly to either of the Publishers, the Living Age will be punctually for warded free of postage.

Complete sets of the First Series. in thirty-six volumes, and of the Second Series, in twenty volumes, handsomely bound. packed in neat boxes, and delivered in all the principal cities, free of expense of freight, are for sale at two dollars a volume.

ANY VOLUME may be had separately, at two dollars, bound, or a dollar and a half in numbers.

ANY NUMBER may be had for 12 cents; and it is well worth while for subscribers or purchasers to complete any broken volumes they may have, and thus greatly enhance their value.

CAN THIS BE CHRISTMAS-TIME?

CAN this be Christmas-time?

The wind that scarcely shakes the spray,

Or bears the gossamer away, Sighs warmly as on summer's day In mine own northern clime!

And yet 'tis in December.

Ah, me! what furious war of wind.
And thunder-riven clouds I mind,
Laden with ruin, lightning lined-
What drear tales I remember!
Stories of misery,

Of grinding want, hunger's throe,
And orphans' wail, and widows' woe;
Of men found dead in graves of snow,
And seamen lost at sea.

Yet fairer memories too.

However dark and drear the day,
The morrow may be bright and gay-
The storm-cloud ever wears a ray
Inside of silver huc.

Once more I seem to hear,

At eve, sweet voices welcome tell
To-day when wondrous birth befel,
And joyous clash of many a bell
From church-tower chiming clear.
And lo! the morrow fair,

That sees the forms of old and young,
Joy in their hearts, to church-gates throng,
To hail the time with choral song,
And humbly muttered prayer.
Then, when the day is past,

And over snow-drifts cold and white,
The moon showers down her frosty light,
Sec, from each cottage-window bright,

The yule-tree's cheer is cast.

Hark! laughter's ringing cry,

The music of blithe hearts and free,
That hails the stolen kiss with glee,'
Snatched 'neath the sprays of Christmas-tree,
Hung from the rafter high.

Now round the cheerful blaze

They gather for the wassail's cheer,
Or, trembling, to the grandsire near
The young list, with delightful fear,
To tales of olden days-
Of hapless ladye's doom,

Who fled, when weary of the dance
To hide from her lover's glance,
In oaken chest, which luckless chance
Converted to her tomb.

Ah, time! whose memory

Bears me away to happier shore,
And home, and all I love, once more-
Where is the sweetness that you bore
For me in days gone by?

Can this be Christmas day?

The earth around is parched and dry;
The Indian sun, with fiery eye,
Shines hotly from a cloudless sky,

And scorches with its ray;

Each tender painted flower

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BY MARY ANNE BROWNE.

Oн, for one hour of rest! Would I could feel
A quiet, dreamless slumber falling on me,
And yet be conscious that my strong appeal

To heaven for mercy had that blessing won
me!

How could I love to know each limb was still!
To have no sense except that I was sleeping,
To feel I had no memory of past ill,

No vision tinged with either smile or weeping.
Vain yearning! Ever since the spirit came
Into the bondage of this mortal frame,
It hath been restless, sleepless, unsubdued,
And ne'er hath known a moment's quietude!
How I have courted rest-rest for my soul!

Flung by my books, and cast my pen away,
And said "No weary wave of thought shall

roll

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Around me, telling me they took their birth
From my own soul; and then farewell to rest!
For if they're fair I woo them to my breast,
And if they're dark they force them on my sight,
Standing between my spirit and the light.
And I have gone, in the still twilight hour,

And sat beneath the lindens, while the bee
Was murmuring happily in some near flower;
But then I could not rest for ecstacy.
And I have lain where the wide ocean heaveth;
But here no quiet steeps my feverish head,
For many a buried image my heart giveth
At the low, spell-like moaning of the main,
Like that great sea delivering up her dead.

I may not wholly rest!-before my brain,
When my eye closeth, flit a thousand dreams,
Like insects hovering o'er tree-shadowed streams.
Alas! there is no rest for one whose heart

Time with the changeful pulse of nature
keepeth;

Who hath in every blossom's life a part,
And for each leaf that autumn seareth weep-
eth!

No rest for that wild soul that fits its tone
To every harmony that nature maketh-
That saddens at her winter evening's moan,
And like her at the voice of thunder quaketh,
For may the spirit rest while yet remain
Unknown the mysteries that none attain
In his dim world. Another state of being
Shall make us, like to Him who made, all-see-
ing,

Droops 'neath the noonday's glances bright; And then may rest the soul, when its calm eye

The insect in its happy flight

At one view comprehends eternity!

From The Quarterly Review. 1. An Abstract of the Returns made to the Lords of the Committee of Privy Council for Trade, of Wrecks and Casualties which occurred on and near the Coasts of the United Kingdom, from January 1st to the 31st of December, 1857. London, 1858.

2. Annual Statement of the Trade and Navigation of the United Kingdom with Foreign Countries and British Possessions, in the Year 1856. London, 1857.

3. First Report from the Select Committee on Shipwrecks, together with the Minutes of Evidence, Appendix, and Index. London, 1843.

dots-the sites of wrecks, collisions, and other
disasters. From this we perceive how all the
dangerous headlands and sandbanks of the
coasts are strewn with-
"A thousand fearful wrecks,

A thousand men that fishes gnawed upon;
Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,
Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels-
All scattered in the bottom of the sea."
Strange to say, these dismal finger-posts to
marine disasters are generally found grouped
around the sites of lighthouses. If we ana-
lyze the chart for the year 1857, we perceive
at a glance the relative dangers of the three
seaboards of triangular England, and that a
fatal pre-eminence is given to the East coast."
Out of a total of eleven hundred and forty-
three wrecks and casualties which took place
in this year, no less than six hundred, or more
than one half, occurred between Dungeness
and Pentland Frith. Along this perilous sea,
beset with sands, shoals, and rocky headlands,
no less than one hundred and fifty thousand
vessels pass annually, the greater part ill-con-
structed, deeply-laden colliers, such as we see
in the Pool, and wonder how they manage to
survive a gale of wind. The South coast, ex-
tending from Dungeness to the Land's End,
is comparatively safe, only eighty-four wrecks
having taken place in 1847, whilst from the
Land's End to Greenock, where the influence
of the Atlantic gales is most sensibly felt, the
numbers rise again to two hundred and eighty-
six, and the Irish coast contributes a total of
one hundred and seventy-three.

THERE is no nobler or more national sight in our island than to behold the procession of stately vessels as they pass in panoramic pride along our shores, or navigate the great arterial streams of commerce, to witness the deeply laden Indiaman warped out of the docks, or to see the emigrant ship speeding with bellying sails down Blackwall Reach, watched by many weeping eyes, and the depository of many aching hearts. It would, however, spoil the enjoyment of the least interested spectator if the veil could be lifted from the dark future; if that gallant Indiaman could be shown him broadside on among the breakers; or that stately vessel with bulwarks fringed with tearful groups, looking so sadly to the receding shore, were pictured by him foundering in mid ocean-gone to swell the numbers of the dismal fleet that yearly sails and is never heard of more. Sadder still If we take a more extended view of these would be his reflections if another passing disastrous occurrences by opening the wreck ship could be shown him, destined perhaps to chart attached to the evidence of the select circle the globe in safety, and when within committee on harbors of refuge, given in 1857, sight of the white cliffs of Albion, full of joy-containing the casualties of five years, from ful hearts, suddenly in the dark and stormy 1852 to 1856, both inclusive, we shall be the night, fated to be dashed to atoms, like the Reliance and Conqueror, on a foreign strand. If such dramatic contrasts as these could be witnessed we should without doubt strain every nerve to prevent their recurrence. As it is the sad tale of disasters at sea comes to us weakened by the lapse of time and the distance of the scene of the catastrophe: instead of having the harrowing sight before our eyes, we have only statistics which raise no emotion, and even rarely arrest attention. In connection with these annual returns there is published a fearful looking map termed a wreck chart, in which the shores of Great Britain and Ireland are shown fringed with

better able to analyze their causes. Within this period no less than five thousand one hundred and twenty-eight wrecks and collisions took place, being an average of one thousand and twenty-five a year. According to the evidence of Captain Washington, R.N., the scientific and indefatigable Hydrographer of the Admiralty, these casualties consisted of

Vessels.

Total losses by stranding or otherwise 1,940 collisions

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64

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244

Serious damage having to discharge. 2,401
Collisions with serious damage.

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543

Total 5,128 The total losses from all causes, therefore,

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