For see! in glittering points, the coast Divides; the mountain chain, On waves afar in silence tossed, Trembles athwart the main. Anon, the mariner looks forth, And scans with cheerless brow,-- Borne onward by the angry North, An arctic navy now. “How shall the good ship Rufus speed? How live?” the master cried;-- “God send us help in time of need,"-- “Amen!” the crew replied. Each ice-built crag and snowy cliff Chases the foaming spray; And, ’mid those moving Alps, the skiff Must find her destined way. Her destined way?--Her destined fate! Now drops the needful gale; The waves become a glassy plate; The bark forbears to sail. Prisoned of God; by mountains pent,-- Fuel and food consumed;-- Ask not of me the dire event, Nor why they thus were doomed. * * * * * Again, borne forth by waves and wind, Men spread a venturous sail, ’Mid rocks of massy ice to find The scarce less massy whale. The optic tube now aids the eye, And scans the distant sea: A distant speck they now descry; A speck--what can it be? “What can it be?” inquire the men-- “An iceberg, or a sail?” As yet the crew inquire in vain, And doubt must yet prevail. Yes, doubt prevails, and strengthens still, Though fast the object nears. “Sure ’tis no sail which at the will Of winds and billows steers!” Fancy still limns out forms uncouth, Yet scarce herself persuades; But fancy now gives place to truth More startling than her shades. A dreary hull, with shattered mast, And sails of strangest guise, And cordage fluttering in the blast, Now meets their wondering eyes. The bark they hail;--in many a groan The bellowing shrouds reply; But bellowing shrouds respond alone;-- No voice returns the cry. Strange!--for, as near with curious haste They ply, and glance within, Lo! at the cabin window placed, A form is dimly seen. They mount the floating ruin now-- Her deck is overlaid Man’s height in crusted ice and snow, Which shows no human tread. To find the hatch beneath the drift, They all their efforts lend,-- Its frozen planks at length they lift, And fearfully descend. Now pause they at the cabin door;-- Now enter, as they will;-- Its quiet inmate, as before, Sits unconcerned and still. With pen in hand, and half reclined, Like those in thoughtful moods; To noises deaf, to visions blind, He cares not who intrudes. No!--for a filmy mold invests His long untroubled brow;-- His eyeballs green sought not his guests, Nor can he turn them now. [Illustration: SINKING OF THE LONDON.]