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GEORGE HENRY BOKER.

[Born in 1823. A gentleman of fortune, author of Anne Boleyn, a tragedy, and of various other dramas and poems].

A BALLAD OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN.
"The ice was here, the ice was there,

The ice was all around."-COLERIDGE.

"O WHITHER sail you, Sir John Franklin ?"
Cried a whaler in Baffin's Bay.

"To know if between the land and the pole
may find a broad sea-way."

I

"I charge you back, Sir John Franklin,

As
For between the land and the frozen pole
No man may sail alive."

you would live and thrive;

But lightly laughed the stout Sir John,
And spoke unto his men:

"Haif England is wrong, if he is right;
Bear off to westward then."

"O whither sail you, brave Englishman ?"
Cried the little Esquimaux.

"Between your land and the polar star
My goodly vessels go."

"Come down, if you would journey there,"
The little Indian said;

"And change your cloth for fur clothing,
Your vessel for a sled."

But lightly laughed the stout Sir John,
And the crew laughed with him too :-
A sailor to change from ship to sled,
I ween, were something new!

All through the long, long polar day,
The vessels westward sped ;

And, wherever the sail of Sir John was blown,
The ice gave way and fled:

Gave way with many a hollow groan,
And with many a surly roar ;

But it murmured and threatened on every side, And closed where he sailed before.

"Ho! see ye not, my merry men,
The broad and open sea?
Bethink ye what the whaler said,
Think of the little Indian's sled !"
The crew laughed out in glee.

"Sir John, Sir John, 'tis bitter cold,
The scud drives on the breeze,
The ice comes looming from the north,
The very sunbeams freeze."

"Bright summer goes, dark winter comes-
We cannot rule the year;

But, long e'er summer's sun goes down,
On yonder sea we'll steer."

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

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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.'

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"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!"

TO THE MEMORY OF M. A. R.

WITH the mild light some unambitious star
Illumes her pathway through the heavenly blue,-
So unobtrusive that the careless view
Scarce notes her where her haughtier sisters are,—
So ran thy life. Perhaps, from those afar,
Thy gentle radiance little wonder drew,

And all their praise was for the brighter few.
Yet mortal vision is a grievous bar
To perfect judgment. Were the distance riven,
Our eyes might find that star so faintly shone
Because it journeyed through a higher zone,
Had more majestic sway and duties given,
Far loftier station on the heights of heaven,
Was next to God, and circled round his throne.

TO J. M. B.

I WONDER, darling, if there does not wear
Something from love, with love's so daily use,-
If in the sweetness of his vigorous juice
Time's bitter finger dips not here and there.
What thing of earthly growth itself can bear
Above its nature, overrule abuse,

And, like the marvel of the widow's cruse,
Freshen its taint, and all its loss repair?
I can but wonder at the faithful heart

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