Through the gates into the city on he pressed with eager tread; There he met a long procession-mourners following the dead. "Now why weep ye so, good people? And whom bury ye to-day? Why do yonder sorrowing maidens scatter flowers along the way? Has some saint gone up to heaven?" "Yes," they answered, weeping sore; "For the Organ-builder's saintly wife our eyes shall see no more; And because her days were given to the service of God's poor, From His church we mean to bury her. See! yonder is the door." No one knew him; no one wondered when he cried out, white with pain; No one questioned when, with pallid lips, he poured his tears like rain. ""Tis some one she has comforted, who mourns with us,” they said, As he made his way unchallenged, and bore the coffin's head; Bore it through the open portal, bore it up the echoing aisle, Let it down before the altar, where the lights burned clear the while. When, oh, hark! the wondrous organ of itself began to play Strains of rare, unearthly sweetness never heard until that day! All the vaulted arches rang with music sweet and clear; With the smile of one forgiven, gently sank beside it-dead. They who raised the body knew him, and they laid him by his bride; Down the aisle and o'er the threshold they were carried, side by side; While the organ played a dirge that no man ever heard before, And then softly sank to silence-silence kept forevermore. SHIPWRECKED BY FRANÇOIS COPPÉE "Tis fifty years ago this very day Since I first went to sea; on board, you know, An old three-masted tub, rotten almost, Just fit to burn, bound for the Guinea coast. My boyhood had been passed 'neath yonder cliff, Kept me at prawning for my daily bread. At night he came home drunk. Such kicks and blows! But once at sea 'twas ten times worse, I found. First place, our ship was in the negro trade, (Round as an egg) was liberal of the cat. The rope's-end, cuffs, kicks, blows, all fell on me; Was always raised to fend my face from harm. I ceased to cry. Tears brought me no relief. Had placed a dog among those cruel men. Like me, he shunned their brutal kicks and blows. We soon grew friends, fast friends, true friends, God knows! He was Newfoundland. Black, they called him there. His eyes were golden brown, and black his hair. He was my shadow from that blessed night When we made friends; and by the star's half light, And our men "caulked their watch," I used to creep Night after night I mourned our piteous case, While Black's large tongue licked my poor tear-stained face. Poor Black! I think of him so often still! At first we had fair winds our sails to fill, But one hot night, when all was calm and mute, Then to the steersman whispered, half aside, Some way to save our lives. "Lower a boat!" Our ship broached to. The strain had broke her back, Like a whole broadside boomed the awful crack. She settled fast. Landsmen can have no notion Of how it feels to sink beneath the ocean. As the blue billows closed above our deck, Saw the old port, its ships, its old pier-head, I did not struggle much-I could not swim. I sank down deep, it seemed-drowned but for him— Fierce hunger gnawed us with its cruel fangs, Each morn I hoped; each night, wher. hope was gone, I watched in vain. No sail appeared in sight. He looked me in the face and crouched again. |