Such homage suits him well,—

Better than funeral pomp or passing bell.

What tale of peril and self-sacrifice,

Prisoned amid the fastnesses of ice,

With hunger howling o’er the wastes of snow;

Night lengthening into months; the ravenous floe

Crunching the massive ships, as the white bear

Crunches his prey. The insufficient share

Of loathsome food;

The lethargy of famine; the despair

Urging to labor, nervelessly pursued;

Toil done with skinny arms, and faces hued

Like pallid masks, while dolefully behind

Glimmered the fading embers of a mind!

[Pg 55]

[Pg 56]

[Pg 56]

[Pg 57]

[Pg 57]

That awful hour, when through the prostrate band

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