was wrong, the wrong is mine;
Besides, he may be in the brine;
And could he write from the grave?
Tut, man! what would you have?"

"Gone twenty years! a long, long cruise;
'Twas wicked thus your love to abuse;
But if the lad still live,
And come back home, think you you can
Forgive him?" "Miserable man!
You're mad as the sea; you rave--
What have I to forgive?"

The sailor twitched his shirt so blue,
And from within his bosom drew
The kerchief. She was wild:
"My God!--my Father!--is it true?
My little lad--my Elihu?
And is it?--is it?--is it you?
My blessed boy--my child--
My dead--my living child!"

THE LAST OF THE "EURYDICE."

BY SIR NOEL PATON.

(Sunday, March 24, 1878.)

The training ship _Eurydice_--
As tight a craft, I ween,
As ever bore brave men who loved
Their country and their queen--
Built when a ship, sir, _was_ a ship,
And not a steam-machine.

Six months or more she had been out,
Cruising the Indian Sea;
And now, with all her canvas bent--
A fresh breeze blowing free--
Up Channel in her pride she came,
The brave _Eurydice_.

On Saturday it was we saw
The English cliffs appear,
And fore and aft from man and boy
Uprang one mighty cheer;
While many a rough-and-ready hand
Dashed off the gathering tear.

We saw the heads of Dorset rise
Fair in the Sabbath sun.
We marked each hamlet gleaming white,
The church spires one by one.
We thought we heard the church bells ring
To hail our voyage done!

"Only an hour from Spithead, lads:
Only an hour from home!"
So sang the captain's cheery voice
As we spurned the ebbing foam;
And each young sea-dog's heart sang back,
"Only an hour from home!"

No warning ripple crisped the wave,
To tell of danger nigh;
Nor looming rack, nor driving scud;
From out a smiling sky,
With sound as of the tramp of doom,
The squall broke suddenly,

A hurricane of wind and snow
From off th