The second day was at an end, Then darkness settled on the ship, And, ere the middle of the night, Oh! many went to sleep that night, And many hearts beat true and warm A heavy fog came stealing down, So thick, the steersman scarce could see There was a moment, and no more, No time to tack, to give her room, The eddying waves closed o'er the wreck, Then rolled on as before; And that ship's company went down, To sail the sea no more! A fisherman upon the beach, "Twas not the seaweed's heavy mass Which clogged the billows' swell; 'Twas not the wood of rifted wreck That floated on so well. The fisherman strode boldly in, It was a child-a little girl- And pitiful the look he bent On that young form so fair; And tenderly he wiped the face, And wrung the heavy hair. 66 I'll take her home to Margaret, And see what she can do ; If life is in the body yet, She's sure to bring it to." Within his dwelling on the beach The youthful limbs were barely hid By clothing for the night; And heavy lay the closed lids On eyes that once were bright. The soft round cheek was cold and blue, That opens in the early dew, The sweet young mouth was tightly closed. Oh! will the warm blood ever tinge But Margaret's patience wearied not; And do we say--" Thy cares forego, The tender bud, though blighted now, Will blossom in the sky: The storms of life may beat it down, Or poverty, with cruel hand, May crush that flower so frail: Oh! let it die ?"—but so said not Her cheerful hope, like jewel bright, Life was to her a sacred gift, A high and priceless thing, That grace came not to her in vain; She heard the heavenly voice, That often now within her soul Said, "Margaret, rejoice!" The living stream that healed her heart, Descending from above, Left not a barren soil behind, But rich in fruits of love. The weeping stranger told her tale Her little brothers all were drowned, And she had no relations left,- They all had left their pleasant homes 66 Fear not, my lamb," said Margaret, "I will your mother be; And you shall be as merry here Here's Marianne, and Isabel, The little orphan raised her lips But ere that many weeks had flown Down to the fisher's lowly cot "If you take in that friendless child, I'd send her to the Union House, I should not, of myself, have thought But if God laid it out for me, Why, he will bring me through."-- "You know," another kindly said, And though you're decent, honest folks, 66 'And we are poor, and very poor, I know," said Margaret; “But God can show my husband where To cast his fishing-net. For He who made the fish, you know, "Well, you must please yourself, of course; But, in my humble thought, You're taking on yourselves more care Than working-people ought." "It may be so-I know," she said, "But still I am content; I have a feeling in my mind If your sweet darling, little Bell, To be shipwrecked and cast away, |