Long she looked upon the waters,
Shading vision with her hand;
Sank the red sun low and lower,
Dropping darkness o'er the land.
"Grandsire!" spoke the Norman lassie,
Crying out her heart's wild dread,
"Are the boats, the lads, in danger?
Poor old Grandsire bent his head,
And the locks by age fast silvering,
Fluttered in the stormy air,
While his trembling fingers threaded
Through the maiden's wind-tossed hair.
“Fret not, Marie, lass,” he murmured,
"God doth rule both sea and land;
He who stilled the tempest, holds them
In the hollow of his hand."

"Grandsire, hark!" A gun is booming
Loud above the vesper bell;
Thunders mutter in the heavens,―
High the foam-caps rose and fell.

All the villagers came hastening
From their homes both far and near,
While their fervent prayers ascended
To the virgin mother's ear.

Two and twenty were the fishers

Out upon the waters wild;

Wept the wife then for her husband,
Moaned the mother for her child.

"Can we launch a boat, old Grandsire?
Will it reach yon dangerous rock
Where our comrades' boats are drifting,
Can it stand the tempest shock?"

Grandsire spoke in accents solemn ;
"Nay, my lads; the way to choose
Is for one to swim the breakers,
But he risks his life to lose."

Did they hesitate an instant,

While they thought on home and wife,

Till the nobler manhood conquered,

Prompting each to save a life?

!

While they pause, out spake a woman,—
Marie with the eyes of blue;
"Grandsire, I can swim the breakers!
Tell me quickly what to do."

Red the bronzed cheek of the seamen,
Redder grew with conscious shame;
Marie fearless turned and faced them:
"I will go, ye're none to blame."

"Ye have wives and homes and children,
I have only Grandsire here,

I have loved the beach since childhood,
And I know it far and near,—

"Know its every nook and crevice,
Jean's out there and go I must!
Pray for me to holy Mary,

To her guidance will I trust.”

Round about her waist the life-rope
With a steady hand she drew,
And the men in line stood ready,
Lives to save and work to do.

Then she bound her flowing tresses,
Bared each shapely, supple arm,
Plunged amidst the foaming billows;—
Boom! the signal gun's alarm!

"Holy mother! guard and save her,"
Prayed the matrons with their beads,
While the Grandsire's limbs, all trembling,
Shook like quivering aspen reeds.

In his quaint, old-fashioned cassock,
Holding crucifix on high,
Knelt the priest among his people;
Gleamed the cross against the sky.

"Jesu, hear us or they perish;
As on Galilee's blue wave
Thou didst still the midnight tempest,
Oh, have mercy now and save!

"Mary, mother! hear our pleading,
Intercession for us make;

Spare, oh! spare thy helpless children,

Spare them now for Christ's dear sake.”

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Marie battled with the billows,

White her face, each breath a prayer: While her brave heart kept repeating "God and Mary mother! spare!" "Look! the rope! it grips! it tightens!" Pass along the cheering word; God be praised! the line is fastened! Thrice the signal gun is heard.

Drenched and dripping came the sailors
Till of twenty men and two,
Only Jean was counted missing,
With Marie, the brave and true.

"They'll be here now, soon, together-"
Gasped the sailor last to pass,
"But the rope is strained and weakened,
Holy mother, save the lass!"

Then a strange and awful terror,
In each heart doth stronger swell;
Stilled the storm, and fearful silence
On the Norman people fell.

"God! the rope! it wavers! slackens!"
Grandsire fell upon the sands:
Up to heaven, beseeching pity,
Lifted high his withered hands.

On their knees the Norman people
Slowly coiled the parted rope,
While the women white with anguish,
Spoke to Grandsire, bade him hope.

Broke he into bitter weeping,

And his trembling lips said "Nay,

I shall never more behold her,
God hath taken her away!"

Then the one and twenty fishers
Wept as only strong men do,
For the gentle, brave, sweet lassie,
And their fisher comrade, too.

All night long the solemn church bell
Tolled upon the rocky hill;

All night long the bonfires glimmered,
After wind and wave were still.

Till the sun above the ocean
Rose in all his glory red,
Priest and people at the altar
Chanted masses for the dead.

On the beach at dawn they found them,
Borne upon the flowing tide;
Clasped her bonny arms around him,
Cruel death did not divide.

In the church-yard, 'neath the flowers,
Covered by the fresh, young grass,
Rest sweet Marie and her lover;
And the villagers who pass

Cross themselves in silent reverence,
When the bell at night tolls ten;
'Tis the hour the maiden perished,
Saving one and twenty men.
Shines the radiant moon at midnight,
Bits of beauty fleck the wave,
And a path of silver glory

Smiles on Jean and Marie's grave.

And the sea, so full of sorrow,
Sings a requiem for its dead;
While the crucifix keeps ever

Watch and ward above their bed.

Rest in peacefulness, sweet Marie!
Braver deed was never done;
Jewels stud thy crown of glory,
Paradise indeed is won.

PAT'S SECRET.

A very amusing anecdote is told of an Irishman who happened to be in Paris while three crowned heads of Europe were on a visit to his Imperial Majesty, Napoleon III. These distinguished persons were the Emperors of Russia and Austria, and the King of Prussia.

One day, having thrown aside all state ceremonial, they determined to see the sights of the beautiful city on the Seine, for their own delectation, and for that purpose they resolved to go incog., so as not to be recognized by

the people. However, in their stroll through Paris they went astray, and meeting a gentlemanly looking person, who happened to be an Irishman, they politely asked him if he would kindly direct them to the Palais Royal.

"Faith, and that I will, my boys," says Pat, at the same time taking a mental photograph of the "three boys."

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'This way, my hearties," and they were conducted to the gates of the Royal Palace, and the Irishman was about bidding them farewell, when the Emperor of Russia, interested and pleased as much by the genuine politeness of Pat (and what son of Erin was ever yet deficient in courtesy and politeness?) as by his naivete and witty remarks, asked him who he was.

"Well," rejoined the guide, "I did not ask you who you were, and before I answer you perhaps you would tell me who you may be."

After some further parleying, one said, "I am Alexander, and they call me the Czar or Emperor of all the Russias."

"Indeed," said Pat, with a roguish twinkle in the corner of his eye, and an incredulous nod of the head (as much as to say, "This boy is up to codding me a bit"). "And might I make bould to ask you who you be, my flower?"

"They call me Francis Joseph, Emperor of Austria." "Most happy to make your acquaintance, Frank, my boy," says the Irishman, who, thinking he was hoaxed, in his despairing efforts to get the truth, as he conceived, out of any of them, turned to the third one and said, "Who are you?"

"They call me Frederick William, and I am King of Prussia."

They then reminded him that he promised to tell them who he was, and after some hesitation, and a mysterious air of confidence, Pat, putting his hand to his mouth, whispered:

"I am the Imperor of China; but don't tell anybody."