Threw stones to direct where the poor boy had sunk, In reply to the woman's demand. I've been told, but 'tis almost too hard to believe, That one of these beings could swim, But was too great a coward and poltroon to risk The endangering of life or of limb. But enough of such sickening allusions as these; Those who might have saved life, lost what none Who never ennoble their lives by good deeds, Could imagine of happiness won By hearts braced with courage, regardless of self, Such as John Girling's mother displayed, Who, like a true hero, sublimely risked life In those efforts, alas! vainly made. Is there not on this isle some society formed To reward such brave deeds as this one? For surely humanity could not withhold Recompense for such gratitude won! Let us hope that this sad, painful history may lead Every one to determine to try, The fine art of swimming to master forthwith, Ere the now opening season pass by. For doubtless the poor boy might yet have been spared, Had he known how to swim or to float, As very few strokes might have brought him to shore, When he slipped from his slight fragile boat. 'Tis sweet to record the good conduct and life Of this well-beloved, motherless boy, In the hope that it may to his absent sire's heart Convey some consolation and joy. * * * * * SELF DENIAL. Teacher sublime, great, grand and free! My spirit loves and honours thee, Who taught that all religion ran,