WHEN the wrath of the tempest bursts over the deep, And the woe-laden winds from their fastnesses sweep, And revel and shriek in their terrible glee, As they whirl o'er the breast of the pitiless sea: When the foam-crested billows surge cruel and vast, And grim Death rides along on the wings of the blast; When the ill-fated ship strives in vain 'gainst her doom, And the rockets flash out, and the minute-guns boom, And the haggard-faced crowd on the stormdriven bark Shriek wildly for help as they peer through the dark; When nearer and nearer the white breakers roar, And Death laughs aloud.—Hark! there comes from the shore A true British cheer, and the life-boat is manned With noble-souled heroes, the pride of our land.

A kiss to their loved ones, a hasty " Good-bye," And then, " Hip-hurrah! we will save them or die!" And they go—while we watch them with quivering breath— To succour the helpless, to snatch them from death! May God speed the Institute—noble indeed— That gave us the life-boat I And, now, in its need, Give freely, ye rich ones, and give, O ye poor, Though it be but a mite from your hardlyearned store; For surely our sympathy, help and applause Were never bestowed on a worthier cause.

F. R. COULSON.