9
THE GIVING OF THE BIBLE TO THE ESQUIMAUX.
ROUND that wide bay whose waters sweep,
With slow—sad current, to the deep,
Hoarse billows beat the rugged shore,
Of cold and dismal Labrador.
There as the lonely sailor keeps
His night-watch o'er those awful deeps,
Sighs for his long deserted home
And hails the slowly rising moon,
Lo! icy cliffs of fearful size
Flash death before his startled eyes,
Cleave his frail bark with thund'ring crash,
As lightnings rend the lofty ash.
His frantic shrieks of thrilling pain
Rouse from their beds the helpless train,
Who soon shall sleep nor wake again.
Cold to the raft their limbs congeal,
Their icy hearts forget to feel,
Dim close their eyes in silent sleep
On their last couch—the northern deep.
Perchance upon the flinty beach,
Their dry, unburied bones may bleach,
