BY NICHOLAS MICHELL, ESQ.* (With Ittuslration.') IT was a wild and lonely shore, Girded by rocks; the sea-bird's cry, The billow's everlasting roar, The tempest, howling through the sky, The only sounds—as though Despair Sat throned, a gloomy monarch there.

ii.

The sun -went down, Wack, threatening clouds Quenching his wonted golden light, And still they spread, like hanging shrouds, Storm riding on the wings of night; And the high rocks the billows lashed, While, rolling answer, thunders crashed.

Above the thunder and the gale, The minute-gun is booming now; See, as the lightnings shimmer pale, Yon vessel with half-buried bow! Her cable snaps—all hope is o'er, Her course is tow'rd that fatal shore.

She strikes!—the breakers o'er her sweep; The hapless crew, so stoutly brave, Are powerless now ; the foaming deep Must be their cold unhonoured grave; Hark to their anguish-cry—their last Wild prayer to God that swells the blast! No arm to save—no Life-boat near; Oh, had that boat—a thing of power, That fronts all dangers, mocks at fear,— Come, angel-like, at that dread hour, Haply no soul had darkly died— Each safely wafted o'er that tide! VI.

They struggle with the raging billow, They shriek, they sink—then all are still, Laid coldly on their ocean-pillow, The bleak winds o'er them whistling shrill! They perished, asking aid in vain— No Life-boat on that stormy main.

VII.

A dog, strong swimmer, reached the strand; He only baffled ruthless death j He found his master, licked his hand, And on him breathed his loving breath; Looked on that form, stretched cold and low, And e'en death's meaning seemed to know.

VIII.

Fond, faithful brute, he stood and whined, And would not quit that lifeless clay • The drowned one had been gentle—kind; He watched and howled till dawn of day : Man's friend, true mourner of the dead, Oft true when human friends have fled.

IX.

They came at last, and on that shore Found the poor victim of the deep; The dog, exhausted, howled no more, But by his master seemed to sleep; The wave-beat sands their mournful bed, Winds wailed their dirge—for both were dead.

x.

Oh, had man's wealth and mercy given A Life-boat to that shore of gloom— Where storms so oft sweep angry heaven— Each soul might have been snatched from doom! Stout hearts still battled through the years, No widows, orphans, shedding tears.

Author of ' The Wreck of the Homeward Bound, ' Ruins of Many Lands/ ' Pleasure,' 4x.