POEM,—FROM THE POLISH.
Some months since a young lady was much surprised at receiving, from the Captain of a Whaler, a blank sheet of paper, folded in the form of a letter, and duly sealed. At last, recollecting the nature of sympathetic ink, she placed the missive on a toasting fork, and after holding it to the fire for a minute or two, succeeded in thawing out the following verses.
FROM seventy-two North latitude,
Dear Kitty, I indite;
But first I’d have you understand
How hard it is to write.
Of thoughts that breathe and words that burn,
My Kitty, do not think,—
Before I wrote these very lines,
I had to melt my ink.
Of mutual flames and lover’s warmth,
You must not be too nice;
The sheet that I am writing on
Was once a sheet of ice!
The Polar cold is sharp enough
To freeze with icy gloss
The genial current of the soul,
E’en in a “Man of Ross.”
Pope says that letters waft a sigh
From Indus to the Pole;
But here I really wish the post
Would only “post the coal.”
So chilly is the Northern blast,
It blows me through and through.
A ton of Wallsend in a note
Would be a billet-doux!
In such a frigid latitude
It scarce can be a sin,
Should Passion cool a little, where
A Fury was iced in.
I’m rather tired of endless snow,
And long for coals again;
And would give up a Sea of Ice,
For some of Lambton’s Main.
I’m sick of dazzling ice and snow,
The sun itself I hate;
So very bright, so very cold,
Just like a summer grate.
For opodeldoc I would kneel,
My chilblains to anoint;
Oh Kate, the needle of the north
Has got a freezing point.
Our food is solids,—ere we put
Our meat into our crops,
We take sledge-hammers to our steaks
And hatchets to our chops.
So very bitter is the blast,
So cutting is the air,
I never have been warm but once
When hugging with a bear.
One thing I know you’ll like to hear,
Th’ effect of Polar snows,
I’ve left off snuff—one pinching day—
From leaving off my nose.
I have no ear for music now;
My ears both left together;
And as for dancing, I have cut
My toes—it’s cutting weather.
I’ve said that you should have my hand
Some happy day to come;
But, Kate, you only now can wed
A finger and a thumb.
Don’t fear that any Esquimaux
Can wean me from my own;
The Girdle of the Queen of Love
Is not the Frozen Zone.
At wives with large estates of snow
My fancy does not bite;
I like to see a Bride—but not
In such a deal of white.
Give me for home a house of brick,
The Kate I love at Kew!
A hand unchopped—a merry eye,
And not a nose of blue!
To think upon the Bridge of Kew,
To me a bridge of sighs;
Oh, Kate, a pair of icicles
Are standing in my eyes!
God knows if I shall e’er return,
In comfort to be lulled;
But if I do get back to port,
Pray let me have it mulled.
KEW BRIDGE.
A STEP-FATHER.