The Atlantic billows roared,
When such a destined wretch as I,
Washed headlong from on board,
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
His floating home for ever left."

Here the fragment stopped, because Shirley's song, erewhile somewhat
full and thrilling, had become delicately faint.

"Go on," said she.

"Then you go on too. I was only repeating 'The Castaway.'"

"I know. If you can remember it all, say it all."

And as it was nearly dark, and, after all, Miss Keeldar was no
formidable auditor, Caroline went through it. She went through it as she
should have gone through it. The wild sea, the drowning mariner, the
reluctant ship swept on in the storm, you heard were realized by her;
and more vividly was realized the heart of the poet, who did not weep
for "The Castaway," but who, in an hour of tearless anguish, traced a
semblance to his own God-abandoned misery in the fate of that
man-forsaken sailor, and cried from the depths where he struggled,--

"No voice divine the storm allayed,
No light propitious shone,
When, snatched from all effectual aid,
We perished--each alone!
But I beneath a rougher sea,
And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he."

"I hope William Cowper is safe and calm in heaven now," said Caroline.

"Do you pity what he suffered on earth?" asked Miss Keeldar.

"Pity him, Shirley? What can I do else? He was nearly broken-hearted
when he wrote that poem, and it almost breaks one's heart to read it.
But he found relief in writing it--I know he did; and that gift of
poetry--the most divine bestowed on man--was, I believe, granted to
allay emotions when their strength threatens harm. It seems to me,
Shirley, that nobody should write poetry to exhibit intellect or
attainment. Who cares for that sort of poetry? Who cares for
learning--who cares for fine words in poetry? And who does not care for
feeling--real feeling--however simply, even rudely expressed?"

"It seems you care for it, at all events; and certainly, in hearing that
poem, one discovers that Cowper was under an impulse strong as that of
the wind which drove the ship--an impulse which, while it would not
suffer him to stop to add ornament to a single stanza, filled him with
force to achieve the whole with consummate perfection. You managed to
recite it with a steady voice, Caroline. I wonder thereat."

"Cowper's hand did not tremble in writing the lines. Why should my voice
falter