sailor on a whaling ship, and probably, as he says, of a foremast hand. It lacks some of the finish of professional literature, as shown in the ruggedness of some of its rhymes, and the vigorous compulsion of the rules of grammar and syntax, when necessary, although the author was evidently of higher education than would belong to one in his position, and its jigging measure becomes tiresome; but it is of very great spirit and vigor, as well as fidelity to its theme, and by no means deserves to have fallen so entirely into oblivion. Indeed, it seems to me to be quite as good as, and a great deal more original than, any American poetry which had appeared up to that time. The song has for its subject the chase and capture of a whale in the North Pacific, and relates the course of events from the time of the first sighting of "white water" on the horizon by the lookouts to that when the monster, stabbed to death by the keen lances, rolls "fins out" in the bloody water, amid the hurrahs of the excited boats' crews. All the details of this _grande chasse_ are given with wonderful vigor, as well as faithfulness, and the historian of the whale fishery will find it as accurate as a log-book. Perhaps the account of the chase by the boats and the harpooning will give as good an idea of the force and spirit of the poem as any part of it; and, in reference to the emphasis of the language, it may be remembered that mates of whaling ships in pursuit of an eight-hundred-barrel whale had a good deal of energy and excitement to relieve. The boats have been lowered, and are darting toward the unsuspecting whale with all the speed of ashen oars and vigorous muscle, while their commanders objurgate and stimulate the crews, as the poet says, "judiciously." "Pull, men, for, lo, see there they blow! They 're going slow as night, too. Pull, pull, you dogs! they lie like logs,-- Thank Heaven they 're headed right, too." "The chance is ours!" the mate now roars. "Spring, spring, nor have it said, men, That we could miss a chance like this To take them head and head, men. There's that old sog, he's like a log. Spring, lads, and show your mettle; Strain every oar; let's strike before He's- gallied, mill-, or-settle-." And so it is, the chance is his. The others peak their oars now. From his strained eyes the lightning flies, And lion-like he roars now. "Pull, pull, my lads! why don't you pull? For God's sake, pull away, men! Hell's blazes! pull but three strokes more, And we have won the day, men! "Stand up there, forward--pull the rest-- Hold water--give it to her! Stern all, stern all--God damn it, heave Your other iron through her! We 're fast, we 're fast--stern out her way! Here, let me come ahead, men.