The high sun sees not, on the earth, such a fiery fearful show; The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe. As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster, slow Sinks on the anvil;-all about the faces fiery grow. "Hurrah!" they shout, "leap outleap out;" bang, bang, the sledges go; Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low; — Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time: Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime. But while you sling your sledges, sing, and let the burthen be, The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we! Strike in, strike in-the sparks be gin to dull their rustling red; Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped. Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array, For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay; Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here, For the yeo-heave-o', and the heaveaway, and the sighing seaman's cheer; When, weighing slow, at eve they go - far, far from love and home; And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam. In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at last; A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat was cast. O trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me, What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea! O deep sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as thou? The hoary monster's palaces! me thinks what joy 'twere now To go plumb plunging down amid the assembly of the whales, And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their scourging tails! Give honor to their memories who left the pleasant strand To shed their blood so freely for the love of father-land, Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy churchyard grave So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave! O, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung, Honor him for their memory whose bones he goes among! SAMUEL FERGUSON. THE ICE PALACE. LESS worthy of applause, though more admired, Because a novelty, the work of man, Imperial mistress of the fur-clad Russ, Thy most magnificent and mighty freak, The wonder of the North. No forest fell When thou wouldst build; no quarry sent its stores To enrich thy walls; but thou didst hew the floods, And make thy marble of the glassy wave. Silently as a dream the fabric rose; No sound of hammer or of saw was there: Ice upon ice, the well-adjusted parts Were soon conjoined, nor other cement asked Than water interfused to make them one. Lamps gracefully disposed, and of all hues, |