158 Sir John Franklin's Expedition.

II.

In mine ear the terrible rush,

The thundering rush of the floe;
And the fhriek of her ribs in the grinding crush,
And the good ship in her throe.

In mine heart, their mute despair,

And the groans of our wailing knell,
As the death-call fwooped through the pitiless air,
And the pale men drooped and fell.
Where they fell, they lay;

Not a knee rose more to the light;

The reeling and shrunken clay
Sank at once into icy night!
Cold, Cold, Cold,

And mine hour is yet untold!

III.

Mine eyelids burn; congeals
My brain within its cell;
And the scalding tear-drop fteals
From an overflowing well;

For I dream of fond hearts at home,
I think of the brave that are gone;
As I gaze at this star-lit dome,
And stagger from stone to stone.
We were two but yesternight,
And, faint, to this welcome fod
I've crawled, till he's out of fight-
And there's no one near but God!

Cold, Cold, Cold,

And mine hour is nearly told!

IV.

When they come, for come they will,

Nor fearch this coaft in vain,
They will find us fleeping still,
On its lone unfriendly plain;
But none fhall ever know,

Till the Great Day comes at laft;
Our griefs in thefe realms of fnow,
And the horrors of the Paft!

For I fink on this fatal beach;

I have prayed with my latest breath;
And my struggles will only reach
The River of Life, in Death!
Cold, Cold, icy Cold,

And mine own laft hour is told!

B. P.

XXXII.

THE CHURCH-YARD.

HE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day;

The lowing herd winds flowly o'er

the lea;

The ploughman homeward plods his

weary way,

And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the fight,
And all the air a folemn ftillness holds
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,

And drowsy tinklings lull the diftant folds.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's fhade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely ways and destiny obscure-
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
The short and fimple Annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Alike await the inevitable hour;

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Can ftoried urn, or animated bust,

Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the filent duft,
Or Flattery foothe the dull cold ear of death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid,

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of Time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repressed their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the foul.

Full many a gem of pureft ray serene,

The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the defert air.

Some village Hampden that with dauntless breast,
The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may reft,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

The applaufe of liftening fenates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to defpife-
To scatter plenty o'er a fmiling land,

And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade; nor circumfcribed alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbad to wade through flaughter to a throne, And fhut the gates of mercy on mankind.

XXXIII.

GRAY.

THE CHURCH.

HOUGH private prayer be a brave defign,

Yet public hath more promises, more love;

And love's a weight to hearts, to eyes

a fign,

We are all but cold fuitors; let us move

Where it is warmeft.
Pray with the moft;

Heaven.

Leave thy fix and feven;

for where most pray, is

M

When once thy foot enters the Church, be bare; God is more there than thou; for thou art there Only by His permiffion. Then beware,

And make thyfelf all reverence and fear. Kneeling ne'er spoiled filk ftocking; quit thy ftate: All equal are within the Church's gate.

Refort to fermons, but to prayers most ;

Praying's the end of preaching. Oh, be drest; Stay not for the other pin. Why, thou haft loft A joy for it worth worlds. Thus hell doth jest Away thy bleffings, and extremely flout thee, Thy clothes being faft, but thy foul loofe about thee.

In time of fervice feal up

both thine eyes,

And fend them to thine heart, that spying fin, They may weep out the stains by them that rife, Those doors being fhut, all by the ears comes in. Who marks in Church-time others' fymmetry, Marks all their beauty his deformity.

Let vain or bufy thoughts have there no part;
Bring not thy plough, thy plots, thy pleasure
thither;

Chrift purged His Temple, so must thou thy heart;
All worldly thoughts are but thieves met together
Look to thy action well,
For Churches either are our Heaven or Hell.

To cozen thee.

Judge not the preacher, for he is thy judge;
If thou mislike him, thou conceiv'ft him not;