"Ho, Mutineers! I ask no act of kindness at your

hands

My fate I feel must steer me now to Death's ever-silent

lands;

But there is one man in my ship who sailed with me of

yore

By many a bay and headland of the New World's eastern

shore :

From India's heats to Greenland's snows he dared to fol

low me,

And is he turned the traitor too, is he in league with ye?" -Uprose a voice from the mutineers-" Not I, my chief,

not I

I'll take my old place by your side tho' all be sure to die."

Before his chief could bid him back, he is standing at his side :

The cable's cut-away they drift, over the midnight tide.

No word from any lip came forth, their strain'd eyes steadily glare

At the vacant gloom, where late the ship had left them to despair.

On the dark waters long was seen a line of foamy lightIt passed, like the hem of an angel's robe, away from their eager sight.

Then each man grasped his fellow's hand, some sighed but nothing speak,

While on thro' pallid gloom their boat drifts moaningly and weak.

Seven sick men, dying, in a skiff five hundred leagues

from shore !

Oh! never was such a crew afloat on this world's waves

before.

Seven stricken forms, seven sinking hearts, of seven shortbreathing men,

Drifting over the Sharks' abodes, close to the fierce Bear's den.

Oh! 'twas not there they could be nurs'd in homeliness

and ease,

One short day heard seven bodies sink, whose souls God rest in peace!

The one who first expir'd had most to note the foam he

made,

And no one prayed to be the last, tho' each the blow delay'd.

Three still remain, "My son, my son, hold up your head, my son !

Alas! alas! my constant friend, I fear his life is gone." So spoke the trembling father-two cold hands in his breast,

Breathing upon his dead boy's face, all too soft to break his rest,

The roar of battle could not wake that sleeper from his sleep :

The trusty sailor softly lets him down to the fathomless deep; The fated father hid his face whilst this was being done, Still murmuring mournfully and low, "My son, my only son."

Another night: uncheerily beneath that heartless sky The iceberg sheds its livid light upon them passing by, And each beholds the other's face all spectre-like and

wan,

And even in that dread solitude man feared the face of

man!

Afar they hear the beating surge echo from the banks of

frost,

Many a hoar cape round about looms like a giant ghost, And fast or slow as they float on, they hear the Bears on

shore,

Trooping down to the icy strand watching them ever

more.

The morning dawns; unto their eyes the light hath lost its cheer,

Nor distant sail, nor drifting spar, within their ken

appear.

Embayed in ice the coffin-like boat sleeps on the waveless tide,

Where rays of deathly cold, cold light converge from every side.

Slow crept the blood into their hearts, each manly pulse stood still,

Huge haggard Bears kept watch above on every dazzling

hill.

Anon, the doomed men were entranced by the potent

frigid air,

And they dream, as drowning men have dreamt, of fields far off and fair.

What phantoms filled each cheated brain, no mortal ever

knew,

What ancient storms they weather'd o'er, what worlds explor'd anew:

What great designs for future days, what home hope, or what fear

There was no one 'mid the ice-lands to chronicle or hear. So still they sat, the weird-faced seals bethought them they were dead,

And each raised from the waters up his cautious wizard

head,

Then circled round th' arrested boat, like vampires round

a grave,

Till frighted at their own resolve they plunged beneath

the wave.

Evening closed round the moveless boat, still sat entranc'd the twain,

When lo! the ice unlocks its arms, the tide pours in amain!

Away upon the streaming brine the feeble skiff is borne, The shaggy monsters howl behind their farewells all forlorn. The crashing ice, the current's war, broke Hudson's fairy spell,

But never more shall this world wake his comrade tried so well!

His brave heart's blood is chill'd for aye, yet shall its truth be told,

When the memories of kings are worn from marble and from gold.

B

Onward, onward, the helpless chief-the dead man for his mate!

The shark far down in ocean's depths feels the passing of that freight,

And bounding from his dread abyss, he snuffs the upper

air,

Then follows on the path it took, like a lion from his lair. Oh! God, it was a fearful voyage, in fearful companie, Nor wonder that the stout sea-chief quivered from brow to knee;

Oh! who would blame his manly heart if e'en it quaked

for fear,

While whirled along on such a sea, with such attendant near!

The shark hath found a readier prey, and turn'd him from the chase;

The boat hath made another bay-a drearier pausing

place,

O'er arching piles of blue-veined ice, admitted to its still, White, fathomless waters, palsied like the doom'd man's fetter'd will,

Powerless he sat-that chief escaped so oft by sea and land,

Death breathing o'er him,—all so weak he could not lift his hand,

Even his bloodless lips refused a last short prayer to

speak,

But angels listen at the heart when the voice of man is

weak.