The dripping icebergs dipped and rose,

And floundered down the gale;

The ships were stayed, the yards were manned,

And furled the useless sail.

"The summer's

gone,

the winter's come,

We sail not on yonder sea:

Why sail we not, Sir JOHN FRANKLIN ?"

A silent man was he.

"The summer goes, the winter comes-
We cannot rule the year:

I ween, we cannot rule the ways,
Sir JOHN, wherein we'd steer."

The cruel ice came floating on,
And closed beneath the lee,

Till the thickening waters dashed no more;
'Twas ice around, behind, before—

My God! there is no sea!

"What think you of the whaler now?
What of the Esquimaux ?

A sled were better than a ship,
To cruise through ice and snow."

Down sank the baleful crimson sun,
The Northern Light came out,
And glared upon the ice-bound ships,
And shook its spears about.

The snow came down, storm breeding storm,

And on the decks was laid:

Till the weary sailor, sick at heart,

Sank down beside his spade.

"Sir JOHN, the night is black and long,
The hissing wind is bleak,

The hard, green ice is strong as death :-
I prithee, Captain, speak!"

"The night is neither bright nor short,

The singing breeze is cold,

The ice is not so strong as hope—
The heart of man is bold!"

:

"What hope can scale this icy wall,
High o'er the main flag-staff?
Above the ridges the wolf and bear
Look down with a patient, settled stare,
Look down on us and laugh.”

The summer went, the winter came―
We could not rule the year;

But summer will melt the ice again,
And open a path to the sunny main,
Whereon our ships shall steer.

The winter went, the summer went,
The winter came around:

But the hard, green ice was strong as death,
And the voice of Hope sank to a breath,
Yet caught at every sound.

"Hark! heard ye not the noise of guns? And there, and there, again?" ""Tis some uneasy iceberg's roar,

As he turns in the frozen main."

"Hurrah! hurrah! the Esquimaux Across the ice-fields steal."

"GOD give them grace for their charity!
Ye pray for the silly seal."

"Sir JOHN, where are the English fields,
And where are the English trees,
And where are the little English flowers
That open in the breeze?"

"Be still, be still, my brave sailors!
You shall see the fields again,

And smell the scent of the opening flowers, The grass and the waving grain."

"Oh, when shall I see my orphan child? My MARY waits for me."

Oh, when shall I see my old mother,

And pray at her trembling knee?"

"Be still, be still, my brave sailors!
Think not such thoughts again."
But a tear froze slowly on his cheek-
He thought of Lady JANE.

Ah! bitter, bitter grows the cold,

The ice grows more and more;

More settled stare the wolf and bear,
More patient than before.

"Oh, think you, good Sir JOHN FRANKLIN,

We'll ever see the land?

'Twas cruel to send us here to starve,

Without a helping hand.

""Twas cruel, Sir JOHN, to send us here,
So far from help or home,

To starve and freeze on this lonely sea:
I ween, the Lords of the Admiralty
Would rather send than come."

"Oh, whether we starve to death alone,

Or sail to our own country,

We have done what man has never done--
The truth is founded, the secret won―
We passed the Northern Sea!"

DIRGE

FOR A SOLDIER.

IN MEMORY OF GENERAL PHILIP KEARNEY.

LOSE his eyes, his work is done!

CLOSE

What to him is friend or foeman,

Rise of moon, or set of sun,

Hand of man, or kiss of woman?

Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!

What cares he? he cannot know:
Lay him low!

As man may, he fought his fight,

Proved his truth by his endeavour;
Let him sleep in solemn night,

Sleep forever and forever.

Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? he cannot know:

Lay him low!

Fold him in his country's stars,

Roll the drum and fire the volley!
What to him are all our wars,
What but death-bemocking folly?
Lay him low, lay him low,

In the clover or the snow!

What cares he? he cannot know :
Lay him low!

Leave him to God's watching eye,

Trust him to the Hand that made him.

Mortal love weeps idly by:

GOD alone has power to aid him.

Lay him low, lay him low,

In the clover or the snow!

What cares he? he cannot know:
Lay him low!

Richard Henry Stoddard.

HYMN ΤΟ THE

BEAUTIFUL.

Y heart is full of tenderness and tears,

MY

And tears are in mine eyes, I know not why; With all my grief, content to live for years,

Or even this hour to die.

My youth is gone, but that I heed not now;
My love is dead, or worse than dead can be;
My friends drop off like blossoms from a bough,
But nothing troubles me,