And speak her well; for she might say,

If from her heart the words could thaw,
Great news from some far frozen bay,
Or the remotest Esquimaux.

Might tell of channels yet untold,

That sweep the pole from sea to sea;
Of lands which God designs to hold
A mighty people yet to be:-

Of wonders which alone prevail
Where day and darkness dimly meet ;-
Of all which spreads the arctic sail;

Of FRANKLIN and his venturous fleet :

How, haply, at some glorious goal

His anchor holds-his sails are furled; That Fame has named him on her scroll, "COLUMBUS of the Polar World."

Or how his ploughing barks wedge on

Through splintering fields, with battered shares,

Lit only by that spectral dawn,

The mask that mocking Darkness wears ;

Or how, o'er embers black and few,

The last of shivered masts and spars,

He sits amid his frozen crew

In council with the Norland stars.

No answer but the sullen flow

Of Ocean heaving long and vast ;—

An argosy of ice and snow,

The voiceless North swings proudly past.

(FROM "THE HOUSE BY THE SEA.")

A MONARCH reigned beneath the sea

On the wreck of a myriad thrones,—

The collected ruins of Tyranny,
Shattered by the hand of Destiny,
And scattered abroad with maniac glee,
Like a gibbeted pirate's bones.

Alone, supreme, he reigned apart,

On the throne of a myriad thrones,— Where, sitting close to the world's red heart, Which pulsed swift heat through his ocean mart, He could hear each heavy throe and start, As she heaved her earthquake groans.

He gazed through the shadowy deep which shields His throne of a myriad thrones,—

And saw the many variant keels

Driving over the watery fields,
Some with thunderous and flashing wheels
Linking the remotest zones.

Oft, like an eagle that swoops in air,
He saw, from his throne of thrones,
The winged anchors with eager stare
Leap midway down to the Ocean's lair-
While hanging plummets gazed in despair
At the unreached sands and stones!

Along his realm lie mountainous bulks,

The tribute to his throne of thrones,

The merchant's and the pirate's hulks,-
And where the ghost of the slaver skulks,
Counting his cargo,—then swears and sulks
Among the manacled bones!

His navy numbers many a bark,

The pride of his throne of thrones :

Golden by day and fiery by dark,
Each cleaves his pathway like a shark!
But his favourite barge is a dragon-ark,
The fairest ship he owns!

:

The voice of that princess beneath the sea
Reached to his throne of thrones ;-
Then he leaped in his barge right gallantly,
And cried, "My child, come sail with me;
We will flash to sunward far and free,
Till love for thy grief atones!"

THIS

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL.

HIS ancient silver bowl of mine,—it tells of good old times,

Of joyous days, and jolly nights, and merry Christmas

chimes;

They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave, and

true,

That dipped their ladle in the punch when this old bowl

was new.

A Spanish galleon brought the bar, so runs the ancient

tale!

'Twas hammered by an Antwerp smith, whose arm was like a flail;

And now and then between the strokes, for fear his strength should fail,

He wiped his brow, and quaffed a cup of good old Flemish

ale.

'Twas purchased by an English squire to please his loving

dame,

Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a longing for the

same;

And oft as on the ancient stock another twig was found,
'Twas filled with caudle spiced and hot, and handed smo-
king round.

But, changing hands, it reached at length a Puritan divine,
Who used to follow TIMOTHY, and take a little wine,
But hated punch and prelacy; and so it was, perhaps,
He went to Leyden, where he found conventicles and
schnaps.

And then, of course, you know what's next,-it left the
Dutchman's shore

With those that in the Mayflower came,- -a hundred souls

and more,

Along with all the furniture, to fill their new abodes,—
To judge by what is still on hand, at least a hundred loads.

'Twas on a dreary winter's eve, the night was closing dim,

When old MILES STANDISH took the bowl, and filled it to the brim;

The little Captain stood and stirred the posset with his

sword,

And all his sturdy men-at-arms were ranged about the

board.

He poured the fiery Hollands in,—the man that never feared,

He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow

beard;

And one by one the musketeers,—the men that fought and

prayed

All drank as 'twere their mother's milk, and not a man

afraid.

That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming eagle

flew

He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the soldier's wild

halloo;

And there the sachem learned the rule he taught to kith

and kin,

"Run from the white man when you find he smells of Hollands gin!"

A hundred years, and fifty more, had spread their leaves

and snows,

A thousand rubs had flattened down each little cherub's

nose,

When once again the bowl was filled, but not in mirth or

joy

'Twas mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her parting

boy.

"Drink, JOHN," she said, "'twill do you good-poor child, you'll never bear