But to the fane, most catholic and solemn,
Which God hath planned:
To that cathedral, boundless as her wonder,
Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply;
Its choir, the winds and waves; its organ, thunder;
Its dome, the sky.
Found in the sick-bay to-day a sailor, who spoke feelingly and well on the subject of religion. He is a member of the Methodist church, and carries a warm, devoted heart under his rude exterior. It is not the smoothest cloud that has in it the most of summer’s balmy breath. It is a great comfort to me to find among the crew here and there one of earnest piety. His example flashes out like a star from a sky of cloud and storm. God grant these lights may be multiplied till our whole horizon shall be lit with their steady splendors.
Mrs. Ten Eyke, the wife of our consul on board, whose health has been for some time delicate, is gradually sinking. How cold the grave to one so young, to whom the earth seems so fair, and life so full of joyous pulses! O death! to thy unbreathing realm glide silently away the beautiful and the beloved.
“They hear a voice, we may not hear,
Which says they must not stay;