A FALLAD OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN.-GEORGE H. BOXER

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, 't is 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 staid, 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 keneath the lee,

Till the thicken. ng waters dashed no more; 'T was ice around, behind, before

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 loug,
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 deat
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?
"T is 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.

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.

'T was 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!

THE LAND OF OUR FOREFATHERS.-EDWARD EVERETT.

WHAT American does not feel proud that he is descended from the countrymen of Bacon, of Newton, and of Locke? Who does not know, that while every pulse of civil liberty in the heart of the British empire beat warm and full in the bosom of our fathers, the sobriety, the firmness, and the dignity with which the cause of free principles struggled into existence here, constantly found encouragement and countenance from the sons of liberty there? Who does not remember that when the Pilgrims went over the sea, the prayers of the faithful British confessors, in all the quarters of their dispersion, went over with them, while their aching eyes were strained, till the star of hope should go up in the western skies? And who will ever forget that in that eventful struggle which severed this mighty empire from the British crown, there was not heard, throughout our continent in arms, a voice which spoke louder for the rights of America, than that of Burke or of Chatham, within the walls of the British parliament, and at the foot of the British throne? No, for myself I can truly say, that after my native land, I feel a tenderness and a reverence for that of my fathers. The pride I take in my own country makes me respect that from which we are sprung.

In touching the soil of England, I seem to return like a descendant to the old family seat; to come back to the abode of an aged, the tomb of a departed parent. I acknowledge this great consanguinity of nations. The sound of my native language, beyond the sea, is a music to my ear beyond the richest strains of Tuscan softness, or Castilian majesty. I am not yet in a land of strangers while surrounded by the manners, the habits, the forms in which I have been brought up. I wander delighted through a thousand scenes, which the historians, the poets, have made familiar to us—of which the names are interwoven with our earliest associations. I tread with reverence the spots where I can retrace the footsteps of our suffering fathers; the pleasant land of their birth has a claim on my heart. It seems to me a classic, yea, a holy land, rich in the memories of the great and good; the martyrs of liberty, the exiled heralds of truth; and richer, as the parent of this land of promise in the west.

I am not, I need not say I am not the panegyrist of Eng