POEM,—FROM THE POLISH.

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.