proudly afloat,
And high on the waves we're tossed;
Mother, adieu, a short adieu;
Your prayers will rise to heaven.
Father, to you--your child and you--
Power to save is given.

"'I have no fear, no maiden fear;
My heart is firm to the deed,
I shed no tear, no coward tear;
I've strength in the time of need.
Heard ye the crash, the horrid crash?
Their mast over the side is gone;
Yet on we dash, 'mid lightning flash,
Safe, through the pelting storm.

"'The wreck we near, the wreck we near;
Our bonny boat seems to fly;
List to the cheer--their welcome cheer--
They know that succour is nigh.'
And on that night, that dreadful night,
The father and daughter brave,
With strengthened might they both unite,
And many dear lives they save.

"Hail to the maid, the fearless maid,
The maid of matchless worth,
She'll e'er abide the cherished pride
Of the land that gave her birth.
They send her gold, her name high uphold,
Honour and praise to impart;
But, with true regard, the _loved reward
Is the joy of her own brave heart_."

Very beautiful are the following lines, which appeared in the
"Newcastle Chronicle," and were written by Miss Eleanor Louise
Montague:--

"Sweet spirit of the merciful,
That smoothed the watery way!
From the true throb of heart to heart
Thou wilt not turn away;
Oh! softly, wilt thou lend thine ear,
When 'mid the tempest's war,
The feeble voice of woman's praise
Shall greet thee from afar.

"I see thee in thy rock-built home,
Swept by the dashing seas,
I hear thy voice as on that night
It stilled the rushing breeze.
When stirred by heavenly visions,
Thou didst burst the bonds of sleep,
To take thy place in peril's path--
The angel of the deep!

"Oh, where was then the tender form
That quailed to every blast!
Like the bread-gift to the famished,
'Upon the waters cast!'
True to thy woman's nature still,
While scorning woman's fears,
Oh, strongest in her gentleness,
And mightiest in her tears!

"Fair as thine own heroic deed
Thou risest on my dream,
A halo is around thee,
'Tis the tempest's lightning gleam--
Upborne by every billow,
And o'erswept by every gale,
One sound hath nerved thy noble heart--
The dying seaman's wail!

"Thine eye onto the wreck is turned--
Thy hand is on the oar--