The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,
And a scornful laugh laughed he.

Colder and louder blew the wind,

A gale from the Northeast,

The snow fell hissing in the brine,

And the billows frothed like yeast.

Down came the storm, and smote amain

The vessel in its strength;

[steed,

She shuddered and paused, like a frightened Then leaped her cable's length.

"Come hither! come hither! my little daughter, And do not tremble so;

For I can weather the roughest gale
That ever wind did blow."

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
Against the stinging blast;

He cut a rope from a broken spar,

And bound her to the mast.

"O father! I hear the church-bells ring, O say, what may it be?"

"'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"And he steered for the open sea.

"O father! I hear the sound of guns, O say, what may it be?"

"Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea!"

"O father! I see a gleaming light,

O say, what may it be?"

But the father answered never a word,
A frozen corpse was he.

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,

With his face turned to the skies,

The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow On his fixed and glassy eyes.

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That savéd she might be ;

And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, On the Lake of Galilee.

And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
Through the whistling sleet and snow,
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
Towards the reef of Norman's Woe.

And ever the fitful gusts between

A sound came from the land;

It was the sound of the trampling surf
On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.

The breakers were right beneath her bows,
She drifted a dreary wreck,

And a whooping billow swept the crew
Like icicles from her deck.

She struck where the white and fleecy waves
Look soft as carded wool,

But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
Like the horns of an angry bull.

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
With the masts went by the board;
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,
Ho! ho! the breakers roared!

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
A fisherman stood aghast,

To see the form of a maiden fair,

Lashed close to a drifting mast.

The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
The salt tears in her eyes;

And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,
On the billows fall and rise.

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,

In the midnight and the snow!

Christ save us all from a death like this,

On the reef of Norman's Woe!

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

THE LAST RESERVATION.

"The removal of Sitting Bull and his tribe was successfully accomplished. A squaw of the tribe, made desperate by the removal, killed her baby and committed suicide."

(Associated Press Dispatch.)

SULLEN and dull, in the September day,

On the bank of the river

They waited the boat that should bear them away From their poor homes forever.

For progress strides on, and the order had gone
To these wards of the nation,

Give us land and more room," was the cry, “ and

move on

To the next reservation."

With her babe, she looked back at the home 'neath the trees

From which they were driven,

Where the smoke of the last camp fire, borne on the breeze,

Rose slowly toward heaven.

Behind her, fair fields, and the forest and glade,
The home of her nation;

Around her, the gleam of the bayonet and blade
Of civilization.

Clasping close to her bosom the small dusky form, With tender caressing,

She bent down, on the cheek of her babe soft and

warm

A mother's kiss pressing.

There's a splash in the river-the column moves on, Close-guarded and narrow,

With hardly more note of the two that are gone Than the fall of a sparrow.

Only an Indian! Wretched, obscure,

To refinement a stranger,

And a babe, that was born, in a wigwam as poor

And rude as a manger.

Moved on to make room for the growth in the West

Of a brave Christian nation,

Moved on-and, thank God, forever at rest

In the last reservation.

WALTER LEAarned.

BEDOUIN SONG.

FROM the Desert I come to thee
On a stallion shod with fire;
And the winds are left behind
In the speed of my desire.
Under the window I stand,

And the midnight hears my cry;

I love thee, I love but thee,

With a love that shall not die

Till the sun grows cold,

And the stars are old,

And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold!

Look from thy window and see

My passion and my pain;

I lie on the sands below,

And I faint in thy disdain.

Let the night-winds touch thy brow
With the heat of my burning sigh,

And melt thee to hear my vow

Of a love that shall not die