THERE'LL be work for the Life-boat—God help it to-night, Where the foam of tiebreakers leaps np to the light.

God help it! It's ready to ride through the mist, And the men who shall man it the women have kissed.

Big, brawny fellows, they're ready to face The winds and the waves, and beat death in the race; But never a man, as he springs to his oar, Knows whether or not he'll return to the shore.

They're launching the Life-boat—the land's on the lee, And the women and children gaze out on the sea ; The sun sinks to rest in a coppery glare— There's a hush in the heavens, a lull in the air.

Bat soon o'er the ocean the tempest shall sweep, And mothers and wives will the night-watches They read in the clouds, like a child in a book, And terror comes into their eyes as they look.

Ev'ry shift in the shoals of the Channel they know, Ev'ry double and twist of the tide's ebb and flow, The tricks and the turns of the treacherous squall, And the chance and the change in its rise or its fall.

When a bark blackly looms on the wild ocean's brim, They will say whence she comes by her bnild and her trim; When the bodies wash up—whether dead or alive— Through the surf will the women all dauntlessly dire.

Ay, and some of the sex will appeal for a place, To handle sn oar in a desperate case; Some have sat in the bow of the quivering boat, And, pluckily pulling, have kept her afloat! They've nerve, and enough, for the bravest of men— When the peril is past, they are women again ; They'll sink on the sand in a torrent of tears : 'Tis the pang of suspense gives a name to their fears.

To wait on the beach when the boat has gone out, And be racked and be wrung by the demon of doubt; To list to the dirge which the waves madly moan, This—this is the lot of the women alone.

In this, the dark hour of their innermost need, They lift up their vehement voices, and plead For the feet of the Saviour to tread in the track Of the boat going out and the boat coming back! Woe to the wives, and the mothers, at best, With the child at the knee and the babe on the breast; Woe to the maid for her lover distressed— When the sea is asleep only then may they rest! D'ye see yonder crag, with the weeds on its crown ? That's where the storm-driven vessels go down, And the sailors thrown up by the billows beneath Are torn into rags on the edge of its teeth.

Had it a tongue it could tell you a tale Of many a victim in many a gale, Of many a vessel and many a crew, Lost at its base when the hurricane blew.

But, if it spoke, it would also reveal Stories of heroes, with hearts true as steel, Legends of Life-boats, of scrala -who have dared Just such a death, yet by death have been spared.

Just such a death—but to dare it again, Just for the sake of the perishing' men Wrecked on the reef -where the -wild sea gull flew, Bound the crest of the crag when the hurricane blew.

A horrible place, with a horrible fame, And to get round the bead is a hazardous game; In the fairest of weathers the venture may fail, But what of the risk in the wrath of the gale! When the surges are grinding the roof of the rock With a deafening roar and a thunderous enocfe, And the white waters gleam, as they eddy and roll, Through the gap in the granite that's known as "HELL'S HOLE." What wonder if hearts should turn foolish for fear.' 'Twixt his hands a man's mate may shout close in his ear.

And he'll catch of the words hut a whispering sound, Because of the crash of the hillows' rebound.

He sees where the whirlpool sucks into its grip The shattered remains of the shuddering ship ; Doomed faces flash up from the screaming abyss, And cold, livid fingers clutch madly—and miss.

It's a mile, more or less, from the stretch of the strand, And between here and there are the shallows and It's 0! to lie low in the lap of the wind, Till the sea is in front, and the bar is behind.

Then 0—ho.' for the craft that no longer may creep, When the rowers must itrw, and the Life-boat must leap! And it's now for the cunning of hand and of eye, For the courage to do, or the calmness to die.

On the shores of old England, when hurricanes smite) The Life-boat is launched both by day and by night; And we, who are Britons, and sons of the sea, Know well what the work of the Life-boat must be.

We've widows and orphans whose fate 'tis to weep . For husbands and sires who were lost on the deep ; But we've women and children among us as well, Who tales of the Life-boat can joyfully tell.

Tajes of the Life-boat, and how it was manned To bring back their husbands and fathers to laud— Snatched from the jaws of the ravenous wave, A coffinless shroud and a desolate grave.

At the thunder of battle the soldier may thrill, And the courage of carnage his bosom may fill ; Some sing of his deeds in the din and the smoke, And envy the strength of his death-dealing stroke.

But the Life-boatman's weapon—his stout, sturdy oar— Strikes only to save as he puts from the shore ,- By the souls of the succoured, and not of the slain, Come the glory and honour he struggles to gain.

Then think of the Life-boat and think of its crew, And the deeds of devotion they're destined to do; And fancy them far on the billowy foam, When you sit warm and safe by the fireside at home.

Give them yo'j: blessings, and give them your prayers, Give money to aid such a mission aa theirs; For while ships and sailors ride over the main, The Life-boat ne'er launches nor labours in rain.

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