And speak her well; for she might say, If from her heart the words could thaw, Might tell of channels yet untold, That sweep the pole from sea to sea; Of wonders which alone prevail 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, 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, Oft, like an eagle that swoops in air, Along his realm lie mountainous bulks, The tribute to his throne of thrones, The merchant's and the pirate's hulks,- His navy numbers many a bark, The pride of his throne of thrones : Golden by day and fiery by dark, : The voice of that princess beneath the sea 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, But, changing hands, it reached at length a Puritan divine, And then, of course, you know what's next,-it left the With those that in the Mayflower came,- -a hundred souls and more, Along with all the furniture, to fill their new abodes,— '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 |