WHEN the blue of the sky can be seen no more, And the sunlight fades from the distant shore; When a murmur runs in the rising wind, Like some lone bird that is lost and blind; And the cloud-bank lying so low astern Is counterfeiting the night's return, No need there is of the warning cry : "Aloft! Reef sail! For a storm is nigh!" But swifter than steed o'er prairie grass, Swifter than sea-bird's wing can pass, May be the rush of the treacherous squall Prom the deep black heart of that cloudy pall; And oft ere the topsail spars are bare There's a sudden sound in the darkening air, And cords are rent and the canvas flies Like a flag of distress to watching eyes.

Oh, ye who have only crossed the seas When the light wave lifts to the summer breeze, How can ye measure the pitiless might Of a winter storm in its rushing flight? Or know what it is to stand and see The cliffs rise nearer, nearer a-loe, And the last hope hangs on a slender thread As the anchor grapples the ocean bed ? Ah, then ye would know how the heart can leap, And free itself from the fears that creep, Could ye see, as we, from the reeling deck, A boat's crew nearing our drifting wreck, And hear o'er the yeasty waves ring out, More sweet than music, the coxswain's shout, When the call of Death grew loud—ah, then Ye would say: "Thank God for the Life-boat men!' By courtesy of the Editor of " Young England.".