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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;
All the air was filled with glory, as of angels hovering near;
And ere yet the strain was ended, he who bore the coffin's
head,

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,
Of La Belle Honorine-lost long ago-

An old three-masted tub, rotten almost,

Just fit to burn, bound for the Guinea coast.
We set all sail. The breeze was fair and stiff.

My boyhood had been passed 'neath yonder cliff,
Where an old man-my uncle, so he said—

Kept me at prawning for my daily bread.

At night he came home drunk. Such kicks and blows!
Ah me! what children suffer no man knows!

But once at sea 'twas ten times worse, I found.
I learned to take, to bear, and make no sound.

First place, our ship was in the negro trade,
And once off land, no vain attempts were made
At secrecy. Our captain after that

(Round as an egg) was liberal of the cat.

The rope's-end, cuffs, kicks, blows, all fell on me;
I was ship's boy-'twas natural, you see-
And as I went about the decks my arm

Was always raised to fend my face from harm.
No man had pity. Blows and stripes always,
For sailors knew no better in those days
Than to thrash boys, till those who lived at last
As able seamen shipped before the mast.

I ceased to cry. Tears brought me no relief.
I think I might have perished of mute grief,
Had not God sent a friend—a friend—to me.
Sailors believe in God-one must at sea.
On board that ship a God of mercy then

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,
When all the forecastle was fast asleep,

And our men "caulked their watch," I used to creep
With Black among some boxes stowed on deck,
And with my arms clasped tightly round his neck,
I used to cry and cry, and press my head
Close to the heart grieved by the tears I shed.

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,
Our skipper-a good sailor, tho a brute-
Gave a long look over the vessel's side,

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Then to the steersman whispered, half aside,
"See that ox-eye out yonder? It looks queer.
The man replied, "The storm will soon be here."
"Hullo! All hands on deck! We'll be prepared.
Stow royals! Reef the courses! Pass the word!"
Vain! The squall broke ere we could shorten sail;
We lowered the topsails, but the raging gale
Spun our old ship about. The captain roared
His orders-lost in the great noise on board.
The devil was in that squall! But all men could,
To save their ship we did. Do what we would,
The gale grew worse and worse. She sprang a leak;
Her hold filled fast. We found we had to seek

Some way to save our lives. "Lower a boat!"
The captain shouted. Before one would float

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,
And with slow motion swallowed down the wreck,
I saw my past life, by some flash, outspread;

Saw the old port, its ships, its old pier-head,
My own bare feet, the rocks, the sandy shore—
Salt-water filled my mouth-I saw no more.

I did not struggle much-I could not swim.

I sank down deep, it seemed-drowned but for him—
For Black, I mean-who seized my jacket tight,
And dragged me out of darkness back to light.
The ship was gone-the captain's gig afloat;
By one brave tug he brought me near the boat.
I seized the gunwale, sprang on board, and drew
My friend in after me. Of all our crew,
The dog and I alone survived the gale:
Afloat with neither rudder, oars, nor sail!
For five long nights, and longer dreadful days,
We floated onward in a tropic haze.

Fierce hunger gnawed us with its cruel fangs,
And mental anguish with its keener pangs.

Each morn I hoped; each night, wher. hope was gone,
My poor dog licked me with his tender tongue.
Under the blazing sun and starlit night

I watched in vain. No sail appeared in sight.
Round us the blue spread wider, bluer, higher.
The fifth day my parched throat was all on fire,
When something suddenly my notice caught—
Black, crouching, shivering, underneath athwart.
He looked-his dreadful look no tongue can tell—
And his kind eyes glared like coals of hell!
"Here, Black! old fellow! here!" I cried in vain.

He looked me in the face and crouched again.
I rose; he snarled, drew back. How piteously

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