Chapter XVI

CHAPTER XVI.
HYMNS ON THE WATERS.

"Hast thou heard of a shell on the margin of ocean,

Whose pearly recesses the echoes still keep,
Of the music it caught when, with tremulous motion,
It joined in the concert poured forth by the deep 't

"And fables have told us when far inland carried,
To the waste sandy desert and dark ivied cave,
In its musical chambers some murmurs have tarried,
It learnt long before of the wind and the wave."

Just at the opening of the seventeenth century, a clergyman in Hull was stepping into a boat with a young couple, 'whom he was going to marry in Lincolnshire. The weather was calm, and there was the promise of a bright voyage to the scene of the wedding; but a mysterious sense of coming danger pressed upon the good parson's heart, and throwing his cane on shore as the boat went off, he cried, "Ho, for heaven!" The shout was prophetic; neither he, nor bridegroom, nor bride returned. They never reached the altar. They sank together. It was indeed, "Ho, for Leaven!" The son of that prophetic pastor lived to give us one of the best boat songs that ever floated over the 'waters, or charmed a pilgrim on the ocean. This was Andrew Marvel, the friend of Milton, and his associate as private secretary to Cromwell. A man who was faithful to his principles, and held his integrity though tempted in the hour of need by offers of a royal bribe; one whose ability and honourable bearing secured his election as Member of Parliament for his native city; and whose genius, talent, honour, and wit were always engaged for goodness and truth against corruption, falsehood, and wrong. Did you ever read Ms whimsical reflections on Holland? They prove that Dutchmen were not his favourites. Their politics were not his. And his lines serve, too, to show the power which he could wield as a satirist:—

Holland, that scarce deserves the name of land,

As but th' offscouring of the British sand;

And so much earth as was contributed

By English pilots when they heave the lead,

Or what by th' ocean's slow alluvion fell

Of shipwreck'd cockle and the mussel shell—

This undigested vomit of the sea

Fell to the Dutch by just propriety.

This is enough as evidence that his memory justly inherits the distinction of great humour and satirical genius. But he was a good man. Nor was he, as a poet, less capable of tenderness and reverent beauty, when they were called for, than for logical and acute philippic. Of course, he would deeply sympathize with the emigrants who in his day fled their country to avoid the oppression to which they were subject for their religious and ecclesiastical principles; and for those of them who found their way to the Bermudas he wrote a hymn which lives to give pleasure to the devout taste of every following generation :—

Where the remote Bermudas ride

In ocean's bosom unespied,

From a small boat that row'd along,

The listening winds received their song.

"What should we do but sing His praise
That led us through the watery maze,
Unto an isle so long unknown,
And yet far kinder than our own!

"Where He the huge sea-monsters racks,
That lift the deep upon their backs;
He lands us on a grassy stage,
Safe from the storm's and tyrant's rage.

"He gave us this eternal spring
Which here enamels everything,
And sends the fowls to us in care,
On daily visits through the air.

"He hangs in shades the orange bright,
Like golden lamps in a green night,
And in these rocks for us did frame,
A temple where to sound His name.

"Oh! let our voice His praise exalt
Till it arrive at heaven's vault,
Which then perhaps rebounding may
Echo beyond the Mexique bay."

Thus sang they in the English boat
A holy and a cheerful note,
And all the way to guide their chime,
With falling oars they kept the time.

None but a kind heart, and a good one, too, would provide hymns like this for those who toil at the oar, and it is a happy thing for human life that such kind hearts do not fail. One follows another, as men need songs on the waters. Marvel sang for emigrant boatmen on the island shores of the west; Wordsworth has furnished us with hymn music from the boatmen on the Neckar. Those who have wandered on the Rhine, and have allowed themselves to be drawn aside by the charms which surround some of its tributaries, will remember the beauties that cluster about Heidelberg, and allow many of its river scenes to enrich the imagery of their dreams in after-life. It would not be difficult to picture one wanderer there; a wanderer in whose witching company many of us have sauntered on an "Excursion" among the highlands of Scotland, the English Lakes, and on the banks of the "Wye and the Wharfe: a Cumberland man, tall, though scarcely of dignified carriage; evidently used to travel, notwithstanding his "narrowness and drop about the shoulders "; with a face, however, telling of deep thoughts and beautiful day

1 dreams, and eyes that seemed like windows opening into some pure spiritual world, and emitting "the light that never was on land or sea." Who would not know William. "Wordsworth? and who would not enjoy to watch him, on the river bank or near the rapids, catching the spirit of the boatmen's chant, and helping us to sympathize with them in danger, and to join them in their hymn ?—

Jesu! bless our slender boat,

By the current swept along;
Loud its threatening^—let them not

Drown the music of a song
Breathed Thy mercy to implore,
Where these troubled waters roar.

Saviour, for our warning, seen
Bleeding on that precious rood;

If while through the meadows green

Gently wound the peaceful flood,
We forgot Thee, do not Thou
Disregard Thy suppliants now!

Hither, like yon ancient tower

Watching o'er the river's bed,
Fling the shadow of Thy power,

Else we sleep among the dead;
Thou who trod'st the billowy sea,
Shield us in our jeopardy.

Guide our bark among the waves;

Through the rocks our passage smooth;
Where the whirlpool frets and raves,

Let Thy love its anger soothe;
All our hope is placed in Thee;
Miserere Domiue!

No one can think of Wordsworth and the English lakes without having Coleridge and Southey before him. Nor could he fail to see that plain-looking house a little way out of Keswick, standing on a gentle eminence over the river Greta, near the old bridge. Greta Hall would be interesting to all who love songs on the waters; for there it was that Caroline Bowles appeared as Mrs. Southey a few years before the poet's death; and there she ministered to the paralysed man who had so widely influenced the literature of his times; and there, like his guardian spirit, she watched and soothed him through the dimness and depression of his closing hours. She would be thought of with deep respect as the second wife of Southey, but she has for ever established her claim on our admiration and esteem by such touching appeals to our best feelings as we have in her Mariner's Hymn:—

Launch thy bark, mariner!

Christian, God speed thee!
Let loose the rudder-bands—

Good angels lead thee!
Set thy sails warily,

Tempests will come;
Steer thy course steadily;

Christian, steer home!

Look to the weather bow,

Breakers are round thee;
Let fall the plummet now,

Shallows may ground thee.

Beef in the foresail, there!
Hold the helm fast!

So—let the vessel wear—
There swept the blast.

"What of the night, watchman?

What of the night?"
"Cloudy—all quiet— '.

No land yet—all's right."
Be wakeful, be vigilant—

Danger may be
At an hour when all seemeth

Securest to th«e.

How! gains the leak so fast?

Clean out the hold—
Hoist up thy merchandise.

Heave out thy gold;
There—let the ingots go—

Now the ship righto;
'Hurra! the harbour's near—

Lo! the red lights!

Slacken not sail yet

At inlet or island;
Straight for the beacon steer,

Straight for the high land;
Crowd all thy canvas on,

Cut through the foam—
Christian, cast anchor now—

Heaven is thy home!

Hymns on the waters come with their richer and deeper music to the heart when they are sung to us by gifted spirits, who have themselves gone "down to the sea in ships, to do business in great waters, to see the works of the Lord and His wonders in the deep;" or who, on missions of mercy, have been "in the deep," "in perils of waters, and in perils in the sea." Among these Charles Wesley is a remarkable example, combining as he does, in his ocean songs, the recollections of an experienced observer, fine poetic power, a jubilant faith, and devout feeling. There is a record in the journal which he kept on his voyage back from America, in 1736, which helps to open the secret of his success in his hymns for mariners: "Thursday, Oct. 28th," says he, "the captain warned me of a storm approaching. In the evening, at eight, it came, and rose higher and higher. Often I thought it must have

come to its strength, for I did not lose a moment of it,
being obliged by bodily suffering to rise frequently. At
last the long-wished-for morning came, but brought no
abatement of the storm. There was so prodigious a sea,
that it quickly washed away our sheep, and half our hogs,
and drowned most of our fowls. The ship had been new
caulked at Boston, how carefully it now appeared; for,
being deeply laden, the sea streamed in at all sides so
plentifully, that it was so much as four men could do, by
continual pumping, to keep her above water. I rose and
lay down by turns, but could remain in no posture long;
strove vehemently to pray, but in vain; persisted in striv-
ing, yet still without effect. I prayed for power to pray,
for faith in Jesus Christ, continually repeating His name,
till I felt the virtue of it at last, and knew that I abode
under the shadow of the Almighty. It was now about
three in the afternoon, and the storm at the height. I
endeavoured to encourage poor Mr. Brig and Cutler, who
were in the utmost agony of fear. I prayed with them
and for them till four, at which tim« the ship made so much
water, that the captain, finding it impossible otherwise to
save her from sinking, cut down the mizen mast. In this
dreadful moment, I bless God, I found the comfort of hope,
and such joy in finding I could hope as the world can
neither give nor take away. I had that conviction of the
power of God present with me, overruling my strongest
passion, fear, and raising me above what I am by nature,
as surpassed all rational evidence, and gave me a taste of
the Divine goodness. At the same time I found myself
constrained in spirit to bear witness to the truth." With,
scenes like these pictured in his soul, who can wonder that
his hallowed genius found expression in such hymns as
this:—

0 Thou who didst prepare
The ocean's caverned cell,
And teach the gathering waters there

To meet and dwell;
Toss'd in our reeling bark
Upon this briny sea,
Thy wondrous ways, 0 Lord, we mark,
And sing to Thee.

That glorious hand of Thine
Which fills the fount of day,

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And gives the lunar orb to shine

With silv'ry ray,
Which hangeth forth on high
The clustering dews of night,
Can point beneath a beamless sky
Our course aright.

Borne on the dark'uing wave,
In measured sweep we go,
Nor dread th' unfathomable grave

Which yawns below;
For He is nigh who trod
Amid the foaming spray,
Whose billows own'd th' Incarnate God,
And died away.

How terrible art Thou
In all Thy wonders shown;
Though veiled in Thine eternal brow,

Thy steps unknown!
Invisible to sight,
But oh! to faith how near;
Beneath the gloomiest cloud of night
Thou beamest here.

To peaceful rest we go,
And close our tranquil eyes;
Though deep beneath the waters flow,

And circling rise.
Though swells the flowing tide,
And threatens far above,
We know in Whom our souls confide
With fearless love.

Snatch'd from a darker deep,
And waves of wilder foam,
Thou, Lord, our trusting souls wilt keep.

And waft them home—
Home, where no storm can sound,
Nor angry waters roar,
Nor troublous billows heave around
That peaceful shore.

The journal continues, "Towards morning, the sea heard and obeyed the Divine voice, 'Peace, be still!' The calm day that now broke on the weather-beaten men was Sunday; and," says the hymnist, "my first business to-day— may it be the business of all my days'—was to offer up the sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving. Then we all joined in thanks for our deliverance." And how he could render thanks for such deliverances we know from the echo of his song. It is repeated to this day.

All praise to the Lord,

Who rules with a word

Th' untractable sea,
And limits its rage by His steadfast decree;

Whose providence binds

Or releases the winds,

And compels them again,
At Hi a beck to put on the invisible chain.

Oh that all men would raise

A tribute of praise,

His goodness declare,
And thankful confess His fatherly care!

With joy we embrace

This pledge of His grace,

And wait to outfly
These storms of affliction, and laud in the sky.

It is natural that one who had known the mingled pleasures, discomforts, and dangers of a sea voyage, should look with kind sympathy on those who are just embarking; and, where a kind heart and ready muse are agreed, that sympathy would prompt a tuneful prayer for the use of all who look for God's blessing when "going on shipboard." Charles Wesley, always in tune for such service, has cheered tremulous hearts on many a deck with his hymn—

Lord, whom winds and waves obey,
Guide us through the watery way;
In the hollow of Thy hand,
Hide and bring us safe to land.

Jesus, let our faithful mind
"Rest, on Thee alone reclined;
Every anxious thought repress,
Keep our souls in perfect peace.

Keep the souls whom now we leave,
Bid them to each other cleave;
Bid them walk on life's rough sea;
Bid them come by faith to Thee.

Save, till all these tempests end,
All who on Thy love depend;
Waft our happy spirits o'er;
Land us on the heavenly shore.

About a hundred and twenty years ago, on a low sandy island, almost covered with palm trees, a few leagues south-east from Sierra Leone, on the western coast of Africa, a wretched-looking young Englishman might be seen toiling in a plantation of lemon trees. He was barely covered with an old trousers and shirt, a yard or two of cotton wrapped about his shoulders, and an old handkerchief around his head. There he worked, without shelter from the sun, or the gales and torrents of the rainy season, half-starved, craving unwholesome roots to allay his hunger. Like another prodigal, "no man gave unto him"—no, nor woman either. Slaves shunned him; and the only woman who noticed him was a sinful black tyrant, who, in vicious association with his master, sported with his miseries, and answered his appeals for mercy by aggravating his woe. He had brought himself into this condition by his reckless profligacy. He was but twenty; but his few years had been rilled to overflowing with ungodliness in its most blasphemous forms. Born of a pious mother, his childhood hallowed by her instruction, and blessed in youth with fair prospects, he nevertheless took to the sea in early life in a manner which disappointed his friends; cut himself off from one good after another; was pressed into the naval service, degraded from his first honours; passed into the African trade on the slave coast; was now a castaway, and had become all but the hopeless slave of a man who engaged him in the meanest drudgery of his meanest traffic. This woe-begone prodigal was John Newton, afterwards known as the reverend rector of St. Woolnoth, London, the friend of Cowper, the compiler of the "Olney Hymns," and the hymnist whose songs have so often quickened failing hearts into cheerful worship both on land and at sea. His adventures on sea and land may be called romantic. On escaping from his degradation on the African coast, he was still a rover, but at last on a homeward voyage, Divine mercy arrested him. A terrible storm fell on them. Death raged around the sinking ship; and then it was, as he says, "I began to

pray I could not utter the prayer of faith; I could

not draw near to a reconciled God, and call Him Father. My prayer was like the cry of the ravens, which yet the Lord does not disdain to hear." The Lord heard his cry. The storm was hushed; but then came on the horrible thought of slow death upon the deep from the failure of provisions, and the lack of means to hasten the shattered vessel toward the land. "I had a New Testament," he tells us, "I was struck with several passages, but particularly the 'Prodigal,' a case, I thought, that had never been so nearly exemplified as by myself; and then, the goodness of the father in receiving, nay, in running to meet such a son, and this intended to illustrate the Lord's goodness to returning sinners. This gained upon me. I continued much in prayer; I saw that the Lord had interposed so far to save me, and I hoped he would do more. The outward circumstances helped in this place to make me still more serious and earnest in crying to Him who alone could relieve. I saw that, by the way pointed out in the gospel, God might declare, not His mercy only, but His justice also, in the pardon of sin on the account of the obedience and sufferings of Jesus Christ. . . . Thus, to all appearance, I was a new man." In this return to his heavenly Father, amidst the terrors of an ocean storm there was, it may be, the first kindling of that hallowed genius which afterwards recorded the penitent mourner's feelings thus:—

I hear the tempest's awful sound,
I feel the vessel's quick rebound;
And fear might now my bosom fill,
But Jesus tells me, "Peace! Be still!"

More and more loud the billows roar,

Far distant is the friendly shore;

But even storms obey His will,

And He, can tell them, "Peace! Be still!"

In this dread hour I cling to Thee,

My Saviour crucified for me.

If that I perish be Thy will,

In death, Lord, whisper, "Peace! Be still!"

My soul, I charge thee not to fear:

Jesus is nigh, my prayer to hear;

His promise He can now fulfil,

And to the waves say, "Peace! Be still!"

Hark! He has listen'd while I prayed,
Slowly the tempest's rage is stayed;
The yielding waves obey His will,
Jesus hath bid them, "Peace! Be still!"

Lord, I adore Thy sovereign power!
My Rescuer from danger's hour;
Oh, when dark fears my bosom fill,
Whisper me ever, "Peace! Be still!"

Newton returned to his native land a new man, not, as he modestly said, "to all appearance" merely, but truly so in heart and life. His circumstances improved as his Christian character brightened; and although his peculiar habits, contracted under uncommon circumstances, kept him in almost a secret enjoyment of inward religion for several years, his light could not be hid. His Christian life was not interrupted even by the associations around him in the slave trade, which, like many good men of his day, he continued to share in. While yet a lad, he had conceived a pure and warm affection for a young girl, the daughter of his departed mother's nearest friends; and that affection which, like a cord of heaven's weaving, kept his heart in gentle bondage all through his seven years of wild, uneasy departure from God, now drew him into a happy marriage with the woman who was still the choice of his soul. And now his peaceful life was spent between quiet scenes at home and voyaging and travelling abroad. While in the country at home, "Some hours every day," he writes, "I passed in retirement, when the weather was fair; sometimes in the thickest woods, sometimes on the highest hills, where almost every step varied the prospect. There it was my custom for many years to perform my devotions. These rural scenes have a tendency both to refresh and compose my spirits. A beautiful diversified prospect gladdens my heart. I consider myself as in the great temple which the Lord has built for His own honour." He was now in easy circumstances; and what a change! What a hush was come upon him! and how the world even had altered its aspect towards him! "I remember," says he, "that on some of those mournful days which I spent on that African island, I was busied in planting lemon trees. The plants I put into the ground were no larger than a young gooseberry bush ; my master and his black mistress, passing by my place, stopped awhile to look at me; at last, 'Who knows,' says he, 'who knows but by the time these trees grow up and bear, you may go home to England, obtain the command of a ship, and return to reap the fruit of your labours ? we see strange things sometimes happen.' This, as he intended it, was a cutting sarcasm. I believe he thought it full as probable that I should live to be the

I

king of Poland. Tet it proved a prediction, and they (one of them at least) lived to see me return from England, in the capacity he had mentioned, and pluck some of the first limes from those very trees." Yes, his life was a life of wondrous change and romantic interest. His course of life as a sea-captain was equally remarkable with his adventures as a young outcast. On his voyages, he rubbed up his Latin, until his classic reading was respectable. He mastered the Greek of the New Testament and the Septuagint, so far as to enjoy the sacred text. He learnt to read the Hebrew Pentateuch and Psalms without the aid of a lexicon; did something in Syriac; gained French enough to transact business in foreign parts, and read much of the best English divinity. What an interest gathers round the seafaring student! "To be at sea," he remarks, "withdrawn out of the reach of innumerable temptations, with opportunity and a turn of mind disposed to observe the wonders of God in the great deep, with the two noblest objects of sight, the expanded heaven and the expanded ocean, continually in view; and when evident interpositions of Divine Providence, in answer to prayer, occur almost every day;—these are helps to quicken and confirm the life of faith, which in a good measure supply to a religious sailor the want of those advantages which can be enjoyed only upon the shore. I never knew sweeter or more frequent hours of divine communion than in my last two voyages to Guinea, when I was either almost secluded from society on shipboard, or when on shore amongst the natives. I have wandered through the woods, reflecting on the singular goodness of the Lord to me, in a place where perhaps there was not a person that knew Him for some thousand miles around me. Many a time, upon these occasions, I have restored the beautiful lines of Propertius to their right owner; lines full of blasphemy and madness when addressed to a creature, but full of comfort and propriety in the mouth of a believer :—

Sic ego desertis passim lene vivere sylvis, etc., etc.

paraphrased—

In desert woods with Thee, my God,
Where human footsteps never trod,
How happy could I be:

Thou my repose from care, my light
Amidst the darkness of the night,
In solitude my company."

How instructive is it to watch this future pastor and hymnist through the processes of his preparation for the usefulness of his life's eventide. How the beauty of some of his hymns brightens, and how much more deeply they touch us, when they are read and sung with the scenes in which he learnt to sing vividly before us. "Who can follow the studious, prayerful, and poetic sea-captain over the waters of his changeful life without having a richer relish for that sea-going hymn of his on Paul's voyage ?—

If Paul in Caesar's court must stand,

He need not fear the sea;
Secured from harm on every hand

By the Divine decree.

Although the ship in which he sailed

By dreadful storms was tossed;
The promise over all prevailed,

And not a life was lost.

Jesus, the God whom Paul adored,

Who saves in time of need,
Was then confessed by all on board,

A present help indeed.

Though neither sun nor stars were seen,

Paul knew the Lord was near;
And faith preserved his soul serene,

When others shook for fear.

Believers thus are tossed about

On life's tempestuous main;
But grace assures beyond a doubt

They shall their port attain.

They must, they shall, appear one day

Before their Saviour's throne;
The storms they meet with by the way

But make His power known.

Their passage lies across the brink

Of many a threatening wave;
The world expects to see them sink,

But Jesus lives to save.

Lord, though we are but feeble worms,

Yet since Thy word is passed,
We'll venture through a thousand storms,

To see Thy face at last.

Others besides old sailors, however, can sometimes give us hymns on the waters. Quiet, home-keeping spirits, like Toplady or Kelly, when they have felt the breath of that Spirit who "moved upon the face of the waters," have given out utterances which have been caught "afar off upon the sea," and have fallen upon the tremulous halfengulphed soul with hushing and reviving power, akin to the voice "which stilleth the noise of the seas, the noise of the waves, and the tumult of the people." "I was once on my way to the Antipodes," said a voyager, who had gone around the world several times. "The vessel was a transport; and we had a large number of troops on board. So multitudinous a companionship was not exactly to my taste on the high seas; but one must make the best of circumstances; and, on the whole, my cabin life was as pleasant as could be in such a case. All went on very safely till one night, the horrors of which will live to play discords on my nerves as long as nerves are a part of my inheritance. I had got into my berth, and was fast asleep; when about the middle of the night, I was startled by a shock, and then alarmed by a strange hubbub of creaking timbers, shuffling feet, and hoarse voices, striving with the whistling roaring wind, and then, my senses were scarcely clear from sleep, when there came a thundering crash; down went the vessel on her beam-ends, and down came the rushing sea, all but filling the cabins, and at once putting out the lights. There was an awful hush for a moment, and then the first voice that broke it came from an officer who leaped out of an adjoining berth, with imprecations that made my blood run chill, and cried, 'This is like hell when the fire is put out!' One felt for an instant as if he were engulphed in hell itself, but just then some gentle spirit seemed to touch my tremulous heart; there came a sweet calm over my soul. I quietly lay in my berth, and felt as if voices from the better land were singing to me that beautiful hymn—

Why those fears? Behold, 'tis Jesus
Holds the helm and guides the ship;

Spread the sails and catch the breezes,
Sent to waft us through the deep,

To the regions
Where the mourners cease to weep.

Led by Him, we brave the ocean;

Led by Him, the storm defy;
Calm amidst tumultuous motion.

Knowing that our Lord is nigh.
Waves obey Him,

And the storms before Him fly.

Safe in His most sure protection,

"We shall pass the watery waste;
Trusting to His wise direction,

We shall gain the port at last;
And, with wonder,

Think on toils and dangers past.

Oh, what pleasures there await us!

There the tempests cease to roar;
There it is, that they who hate us

Shall molest our peace no more:
Trouble ceases

On that tranquil, happy shore!

We lived to outride the storm, but as long as I live I shall feel that the experience of that night for ever hallowed to me the memory of Thomas Kelly. His long life (from 1769 to 1855, began and ended in Dublin) was not spent in vain, if that hymn alone had been all its fruit. One thinks with pleasure of his sixty years of Christian usefulness; but, oh, that hymn! on that night! Blessings on his name!" As a hymnist, verily, Kelly's ever-living influence will illustrate his own happy saying. Lord Plunket, an old school-fellow of his, met him one day in later life, and said, "You will live to a great age, Mr. Kelly!" "Yes," was his reply, "I am confident I shall, as I expect never to die!" The circumstances under which Kelly's charming verses came with such soothing music to the voyager amidst the horrors of the midnight squall, naturally send the thoughts to a scene in "the last days of Bishop Heber.'' Archdeacon Robinson states that, when sailing to Madras, they had a detachment of invalid troops on board. The good bishop's heart was engaged in their behalf, and he claimed the privilege of acting as their pastor. "I have too little in my situation," he said, "of those pastoral duties, which are as useful to the minister as to his people; and I am delighted at the opportunity thus unexpectedly afforded mo." And so, with his Prayer-book in his hand, he went below from time to time, to minister to the sufferers. Nor was it in vain;

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their hearts were touched. "Only think," they said, "of such a great man as the bishop coming between decks to pray with such poor fellows as we are." One poor mother on board had lost her infant; the bishop committed the little one to the deep, and then visited the mourner in her cabin, and ministered consolation to her heart. "At intervals," says a witness, "I hear him weeping and praying for her in his own cabin. I have never seen such tenderness, never such humble exercise of Christian love. Alas! how his spirit shames us all! I thank God that I have seen his tears, that I heard his prayers, his conversation with the afflicted mother, and his own private reflections upon it. It has made me love him more, and has given me a lesson of tenderness, in visiting the afflicted, that I trust will not be in vain." Happy was it for the transport ship in which Heber had a berth. Not that even his gracious presence could secure her from squalls, but his loving zeal could minister life to the souls on board; and when squalls came, his sanctified genius could teach his companions in danger to chant the disciples' prayer, "Save, Lord, or we perish!"

When through the torn sail

The wild tempest is streaming,
When o'er the dark wave

The red lightning is gleaming,
Nor hope lends a ray

The poor seaman to cherish,
We fly to our Maker—

"Save, Lord! or we perish!"

O Jesus! once toss'd

On the breast of the billow,
Aroused by the shriek

Of despair from Thy pillow,
High now in Thy glory

Still the mariner cherish,
Who cries, in his anguish,

"Save, Lord! or we perish!"

And oh, when the storm

Of wild passion is raging,
When sin in our hearts

Its fierce warfare is waging,
Arise in Thy strength,

Thy redeemed to cherish,
Rebuke the destroyer—

"Save, Lord! or we perish!"