ibus Oceanus
Vincula rerum laxet, et ingens
Pateat tellus, Typhisque novos
Detegat orbes, nec sit terris
Ultima Thule.

A time will come in future ages far
When Ocean will his circling bounds unbar.
And, opening vaster to the Pilot's hand,
New worlds shall rise, where mightier kingdoms are,
Nor Thule longer be the utmost land.

This poetic forecast, of which Washington Irving wrote "the predictions
of the ancient oracles were rarely so unequivocal," is part of the
"chorus" at the end of the second act of Seneca's "Medea," written near
the date of St. Paul's first Epistle to the Thessalonians.

Seneca, the celebrated Roman (Stoic) philosopher, was born at or very
near the time of our Saviour's birth. There are legends of his
acquaintance with Paul, at Rome, but though he wrote able and quotable
treatises _On Consolation_, _On Providence_, _On Calmness of Soul_, and
_On the Blessed Life_, there is no direct evidence that the savor of
Christian faith ever qualified his works or his personal principles. He
was a man of grand ideas and inspirations, but he was a time server and
a flatterer of the Emperor Nero, who, nevertheless, caused his death
when he had no further use for him.

His compulsory suicide occurred A.D. 65, the year in which St. Paul is
supposed to have suffered martyrdom.

"THE BREAKING WAVES DASHED HIGH."

Sitting at the tea-table one evening, near a century ago, Mrs. Hemans
read an old account of the "Landing of the Pilgrims," and was inspired
to write this poem, which became a favorite in America--like herself,
and all her other works.

The ballad is inaccurate in details, but presents the spirit of the
scene with true poet insight. Mr. James T. Fields, the noted Boston
publisher, visited the lady in her old age, and received an autograph
copy of the poem, which is seen in Pilgrim Hall, Plymouth, Mass.

The breaking waves dashed high, on a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods against a stormy sky, their giant branches tossed,
And the heavy night hung dark, the hills and waters o'er,
When a band of exiles moored their bark on the wild New England
shore.

Not as the conqueror comes, they, the true-hearted, came;
Not with the roll of stirring drums, and the trumpet that sings
of fame;
Not as the flying come, in silence and in fear,--
_They_ shook the depths of the desert's gloom with their hy