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. 66 "The ice was here, the ice was there, The ice was all around."-COLERIDGE. "O WHITHER sail you, Sir John Franklin ?" "To know if between the land and the pole "I charge you back, Sir John Franklin, For between the land and the frozen pole But lightly laughed the stout Sir John, "Haif England is wrong, if he is right; "O whither sail you, brave Englishman ?” "Between your land and the polar star "Come down, if you would journey there," The little Indian said; 'And change your cloth for fur clothing, But lightly laughed the stout Sir John, All through the long, long polar day, And, wherever the sail of Sir John was blown, Gave way with many a hollow groan, But it murmured and threatened on every side, And closed where he sailed before. "Ho! see ye not, my merry men, Bethink ye what the whaler said, "Sir John, Sir John, 'tis bitter cold, 'Bright summer goes, dark winter comes- But, long e'er summer's sun goes down, The dripping icebergs dipped and rose, The ships were stayed, the yards were manned, "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 comesWe cannot rule the year." "I ween, we cannot rule the ways, Sir John, wherein we'd steer." The cruel ice came floating on, Till the thickening waters dashed no more; My God! there is no sea! What think you of the whaler now? A sled were better than a ship, Down sank the baleful crimson sun, And glared upon the ice-bound ships, 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 hard, green ice is strong as death :— "The night is neither bright nor short, The singing breeze is cold; "What hope can scale this icy wall, "The summer went, the winter came— But summer will melt the ice again, The winter went, the summer went, But the hard green ice was strong as death, "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 God give them grace for their charity!" "Sir John, where are the English fields, "Be still, be still, my brave sailors! And smell the scent of the opening flowers, The grass and the waving grain." "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! Ah! bitter, bitter grows the cold, "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: "Oh! whether we starve to death alone, We have done what man has never done- TO THE MEMORY OF M. A. R. WITH the mild light some unambitious star And all their praise was for the brighter few. To perfect judgment. Were the distance riven, TO J. M. B. I WONDER, darling, if there does not wear And, like the marvel of the widow's cruse, |