Down went the wind, down went the wave, Fear quitted the most finical; The Saints, I wot, were soon forgot, And Hope was at the pinnacle: When rose on high, a frightful cry-- “The Devil’s in the binnacle!” “The Saints be near,” the helmsman cried, His voice with quite a falter-- “Steady’s my helm, but every look The needle seems to alter; God only knows where China lies, Jamaica, or Gibraltar!” The captain stared aghast at mate, The pilot at th’ apprentice; No fancy of the German Sea Of Fiction the event is: But when they at the compass look’d, It seem’d non compass mentis. Now north, now south, now east, now west, The wavering point was shaken, ’Twas past the whole philosophy Of Newton, or of Bacon; Never by compass, till that hour Such latitudes were taken! With fearful speech, each after each Took turns in the inspection; They found no gun--no iron--none To vary its direction; It stem’d a new magnetic case Of Poles in Insurrection! Farewell to wives, farewell their lives, And all their household riches; Oh! while they thought of girl or boy, And dear domestic niches, All down the side which holds the heart, That needle crave them stitches. With deep amaze, the Stranger gaz’d To see them so white-liver’d: And walk’d abaft the binnacle, To know at what they shiver’d; But when he stood beside the card, St. Josef! how it quiver’d! No fancy-motion, brain-begot, In eye of timid dreamer-- The nervous finger of a sot Ne’er show’d a plainer tremor; To every brain it seem’d too plain, There stood th’ Infernal Schemer! Mix’d brown and blue each visage grew, Just like a pullet’s gizzard; Meanwhile the captain’s wandering wit, From tacking like an izzard, Bore down in this plain course at last, “It’s Michael Scott--the Wizard!” A smile past o’er the ruddy face; “To see the poles so falter, I’m puzzled, friends, as much as you, For with no fiends I palter; Michael I’m not--although a Scott-- My Christian name is Walter.” Like oil it fell, that name, a spell On all the fearful faction; The Captain’s head (for he had read) Confess’d the Needle’s action, And bow’d to Him in whom the North Has lodged its main attraction! [Illustration: A STAR OF THE FIRST MAGNETUDE.] SUMMER--A WINTER ECLOGUE. A Back Parlour at Camberwell. Sylvanus is seated at the breakfast-table, and greeteth his friend Civis. SYL.--A good morrow to you, friend Civis, and a hearty welcome!--How hath sleep dealt with you through the night?