’Tis well for Gheber souls that sit
Before the fire and worship it
  With pecks of Wallsend coals,
With feet upon the fender’s front,
Roasting their corns—­like Mr. Hunt—­
  To speculate on poles.

VII.

’Tis easy for our Naval Board—­
’Tis easy for our Civic Lord
  Of London and of ease,
That lies in ninety feet of down,
With fur on his nocturnal gown,
  To talk of Frozen Seas!

VIII.

’Tis fine for Monsieur Ude to sit,
And prate about the mundane spit,
  And babble of Cook’s track—­
He’d roast the leather off his toes,
Ere he would trudge thro’ polar snows,
  To plant a British Jack!

IX.

Oh, not the proud licentious great,
That travel on a carpet skate,
  Can value toils like thine! 
What ’tis to take a Hecla range,
Through ice unknown to Mrs. Grange,
  And alpine lumps of brine?

X.

But we, that mount the Hill o’ Rhyme,
Can tell how hard it is to climb
  The lofty slippery steep,
Ah! there are more Snow Hills than that
Which doth black Newgate, like a hat,
  Upon its forehead, keep.

XI.

Perchance thou’rt now—­while I am writing—­
Feeling a bear’s wet grinder biting
  About thy frozen spine! 
Or thou thyself art eating whale,
Oily, and underdone, and stale,
  That, haply, cross’d thy line!

XII.

But I’ll not dream such dreams of ill—­
Rather will I believe thee still
  Safe cellar’d in the snow,—­
Reciting many a gallant story,
Of British kings and British glory,
  To crony Esquimaux—­

XIII.

Cheering that dismal game where Night
Makes one slow move from black to white
  Thro’ all the tedious year,—­
Or smitten by some fond frost fair,
That comb’d out crystals from her hair,
  Wooing a seal-skin dear!

XIV.

So much a long communion tends,
As Byron says, to make us friends
  With what we daily view—­
God knows the daintiest taste may come
To love a nose that’s like a plum
  In marble, cold and blue!

XV.

To dote on hair, an oily fleece! 
As tho’ it hung from Helen o’ Greece—­
  They say that love prevails
Ev’n in the veriest polar land—­
And surely she may steal thy hand
  That used to steal thy nails!

XVI.

But ah, ere thou art fixed to marry,
And take a polar Mrs. Parry,
  Think of a six months’ gloom—­
Think of the wintry waste, and hers,
Each furnish’d with a dozen furs,
  Think of thine icy dome!