Hour after hour crept slowly,
      Yet on the heaving swells
    Tossed up and down the ship-lights,
      The lights of the Three Bells!

    And ship to ship made signals,
      Man answered back to man,
    While oft, to cheer and hearten,
      The Three Bells nearer ran: 

    And the captain from her taffrail
      Sent down his hopeful cry. 
   “Take heart!  Hold on!” he shouted,
     “The Three Bells shall stand by!”

    All night across the waters
      The tossing lights shone clear;
    All night from reeling taffrail
      The Three Bells sent her cheer.

    And when the dreary watches
      Of storm and darkness passed,
    Just as the wreck lurched under,
      All souls were saved at last.

    Sail on, Three Bells, forever,
      In grateful memory sail! 
    Ring on, Three Bells of rescue,
      Above the wave and gale!

    Type of the Love eternal,
      Repeat the Master’s cry,
    As tossing through our darkness
      The lights of God draw nigh!

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

 SHERIDAN’S RIDE.

There never was a boy who did not like “Sheridan’s Ride,” by T. Buchanan Read (1822-72).  The swing and gallop in it take every boy off from his feet.  The children never teach this poem to me, because they love to learn it at first sight.  It is easily memorised.

    Up from the South at break of day,
    Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay,
    The affrighted air with a shudder bore,
    Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain’s door,
    The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar,
    Telling the battle was on once more,
    And Sheridan twenty miles away.

    And wider still those billows of war
    Thundered along the horizon’s bar;
    And louder yet into Winchester rolled
    The roar of that red sea uncontrolled,
    Making the blood of the listener cold
    As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray,
    And Sheridan twenty miles away.

    But there is a road from Winchester town,
    A good, broad highway leading down;
    And there, through the flush of the morning light,
    A steed as black as the steeds of night
    Was seen to pass as with eagle flight;
    As if he knew the terrible need,
    He stretched away with his utmost speed;
    Hills rose and fell; but his heart was gay,
    With Sheridan fifteen miles away.

    Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South,
    The dust, like smoke from the cannon’s mouth;
    Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster,
    Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. 
    The heart of the steed and the heart of the master
    Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls,
    Impatient to be where the battle-field calls;
    Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play,
    With Sheridan only ten miles away.