"Some years ago a harbor pilot in Boston, who had held a commission for sixty-five years (you know the harbor pilots and the ocean pilots are different). For sixty-five years he had guided ships in and out of the Boston harbor, but his time to die had come. Presently the watchers at his bedside saw that he was trying to sit up, and they aided him. 'I see a light,' he said.
"'Is it the Minot light?' they asked him.
"'No, that is first white and then red; this one is all white all the time,' and he fell back. After a few moments he struggled to rise again. 'I see a light,' he gasped.
"'Is it the Highland light?'
"'No, that one is red and then black; this one is white all the time.' And he fell back again and they thought certainly he was gone, but he came back again as if from the skies and they saw his lips moving. 'I see a light.'
"'Is it the Boston light; the last as you pass out?' they asked.
"'No, that one is red all the time; this one is white all the time.' And his hands trembled and he reached out his feeble arms. His face lighted up with a halo of glory. 'I see a light,' he gasped, 'and it is the light of glory. Let the anchor drop.'
"'And he anchored his soul in the haven of rest,
To sail the wild seas no more:
Tho' the tempest may beat o'er the wild stormy deep,