"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."

66

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 doneThe truth is founded, the secret wonWe 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 то 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,

Only the golden flush of sunset lies

Within my heart like fire, like dew within my eyes!

Spirit of Beauty! whatsoe'er thou art,

I see thy skirts afar, and feel thy power;
It is thy presence fills this charmed hour,
And fills my charmèd heart;

Nor mine alone, but myriads feel thee now,
That know not what they feel, nor why they bow;
Thou canst not be forgot,

For all men worship thee, and know it not;

Nor men alone, but babes with wondrous eyes, New-comers on the earth, and strangers from the skies!

We hold the keys of heaven within our hands,
The gift and heirloom of a former state,
And lie in infancy at heaven's gate,

Transfigured in the light that streams along the lands!
Around our pillows golden ladders rise,

And up and down the skies,

With winged sandals shod,

The angels come and

go, the

messengers of GOD!

Nor do they, fading from us, e'er depart,—

It is the childish heart;

We walk as heretofore,

Adown their shining ranks, but see them nevermore! Not heaven is gone, but we are blind with tears, Groping our way along the downward slope of years!

From earliest infancy my heart was thine;
With childish feet I trod thy temple aisles;

Not knowing tears, I worshipped thee with smiles, Or if I ever wept, it was with joy divine!

By day and night, on land, and sea, and air,-
I saw thee everywhere!

A voice of greeting from the wind was sent;
The mists enfolded me with soft white arms;
The birds did sing to lap me in content,
The rivers wove their charms,

And every little daisy in the grass

Did look up in my face, and smile to see me pass!

Not long can Nature satisfy the mind,

Nor outward fancies feed its inner flame; We feel a growing want we cannot name, And long for something sweet, but undefined; The wants of Beauty other wants create, Which overflow on others soon or late; For all that worship thee must ease the heart, By Love, or Song, or Art:

Divinest Melancholy walks with thee,

Her thin white cheek forever leaned on thine; And Music leads her sister Poesy,

In exultation shouting songs divine!

But on thy breast Love lies,-immortal child!-
Begot of thine own longings, deep and wild:
The more we worship him, the more we grow
Into Thy perfect image here below;
For here below, as in the spheres above,
All Love is Beauty, and all Beauty Love!

Not from the things around us do we draw

Thy light within; within the light is born; The growing rays of some forgotten morn, And added canons of eternal law.