solitude is the residence of a poor widow, whose lonely cottage is called the “light-house,” from the fact that she uniformly keeps a lamp burning in her little window at night.  By keeping this light, and the entrance to the harbor open, a small vessel may enter with the greatest safety.  During the silent watches of the night, the widow may be seen, like “Norma of the Fitful Head,” trimming her little lamp with oil, being fearful that some misguided and frail bark may perish through her neglect; and for this she receives no manner of remuneration—­it is pure, unmingled philanthropy.  The poor woman’s kindness does not rest even there; for she is unhappy till the benumbed and shivering mariner comes ashore to share her little board, and recruit himself at her cheerful and glowing fire, and she can seldom be prevailed upon to take any reward.  She has saved more lives than Davy’s belt, and thousands of pounds to the under-writers.  This poor creature, in her younger days, witnessed her husband struggling with the waves, and swallowed up by the remorseless billow, “in sight of home and friends who thronged to save.”  This circumstance seems to have prompted her present devoted and solitary life, in which her only enjoyment is in doing good.

* * * * *

Here is a pretty piece.  It was written, thirty-four years ago, by a class-mate and friend; but it sounds “as good as new.”  If he should happen to see it here, he will, I know, excuse the alteration of two lines, which, though quite proper for college-boys studying Latin and Greek, are not quite proper for children in a Christian Sunday School.

THE RAIN-DROP AND THE POET.

Come, tell me, little noisy friend,
  That knockest at my pane,
Whence is thy being?  Where dost end,
  Thou little drop of rain?

  I come from the deep,
  Where the dark waves sleep,
And their beauty ever the sea-pearls keep;
  I go to the brow
  Of the mountain-snow,
And trickle again to the depths below.

But, wanderer, how didst win thy way
  From caverns of the sea? 
Did not thy sisters say thee nay,
  Sweet harbinger of glee?

  With his far-darting flame,
  The Day-king came,
And bore me away in a cloudy frame;
  And I sailed in the air,
  Till the zephyrs bare
Me hither to hear thy minstrel-prayer.

And why dost change that tiny form,
  Thou sweetest ocean-child? 
Why art the snow in winter-storm,
  The rain in summer mild?

  The breath from above
  Of Him who is Love,
In the snow and the rain-storm bids me to rove,
  Lest the young-budding earth
  Be destroyed in the birth,
And Famine insult over Plenty and Mirth.

 And wilt thou, little one, bestow
  The minstrel’s small request? 
Wilt come when cares of earth below
  Press on his aching breast?