We read, until the vision dims
        And drowns; but, ere the pang be past,
      A tide of triumph overbrims
        And breaks with light from heaven at last.

      Through all the blackness of that night
        A glory streams from out the gloom;
      His steadfast spirit lifts the light
        That shines till Night is overcome.

      The sea will do its worst, and life
        Be sobbed out in a bubbling breath;
      But firmly in the coward strife
        There stands a man who has conquered Death!

      A soul that masters wind and wave,
        And towers above a sinking deck;
      A bridge across the gaping grave;
        A rainbow rising o’er the wreck.

      Others he saved; he saved the name
        Unsullied that he gave his wife: 
      And dying with so pure an aim,
        He had no need to save his life!

      Lord! how they shame the life we live,
        These sailors of our sea-girt isle,
      Who cheerily take what Thou mayst give,
        And go down with a heavenward smile!

      The men who sow their lives to yield
        A glorious crop in lives to be: 
      Who turn to England’s harvest-field
        The unfruitful furrows of the sea.

      With such a breed of men so brave,
        The Old Land has not had her day;
      But long her strength, with crested wave,
        Shall ride the Seas, the proud old way.

THE HAPPIEST LAND.

BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

        There sat one day in quiet,
          By an alehouse on the Rhine,
        Four hale and hearty fellows,
          And drank the precious wine.

        The landlord’s daughter filled their cups
          Around the rustic board;
        Then sat they all so calm and still,
          And spake not one rude word.

        But when the maid departed,
          A Swabian raised his hand,
        And cried, all hot and flushed with wine,
          “Long live the Swabian land!

        “The greatest kingdom upon earth
          Cannot with that compare;
        With all the stout and hardy men
          And the nut-brown maidens there.”

        “Ha!” cried a Saxon, laughing,—­
          And dashed his beard with wine;
        “I had rather live in Lapland,
          Than that Swabian land of thine!

        “The goodliest land on all this earth
          It is the Saxon land! 
        There have I as many maidens
          As fingers on this hand!”

        “Hold your tongues! both Swabian and Saxon!”
          A bold Bohemian cries;
        “If there’s a heaven upon this earth,
          In Bohemia it lies: 

        “There the tailor blows the flute,
          And the cobbler blows the horn,
        And the miner blows the bugle,
          Over mountain gorge and bourn!”