On February 16, 1857, Elisha Kent Kane, explorer of the Arctic, died at Havana, Cuba, whither he had gone in the hope of regaining a health shattered by his sufferings in the north.

KANE

ALOFT upon an old basaltic crag,

Which, scalp'd by keen winds that defend the Pole,

Gazes with dead face on the seas that roll Around the secret of the mystic zone, A mighty nation's star-bespangled flag Flutters alone,

And underneath, upon the lifeless front

Of that drear cliff, a simple name is traced; Fit type of him who, famishing and gaunt, But with a rocky purpose in his soul,

Breasted the gathering snows,
Clung to the drifting floes,

By want beleaguer'd, and by winter chased, Seeking the brother lost amid that frozen waste.

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Of all its vital heat, in that long quest
For the lost captain, now within his breast
More and more faintly throbb'd.
His was the victory; but as his grasp
Closed on the laurel crown with eager clasp,
Death launch'd a whistling dart;
And ere the thunders of applause were done
His bright eyes closed forever on the sun!
Too late, too late the splendid prize he won
In the Olympic race of Science and of Art!
Like to some shatter'd berg that, pale and
lone,

Drifts from the white North to a tropic zone,
And in the burning day
Wastes peak by peak away,

Till on some rosy even

It dies with sunlight blessing it; so he
Tranquilly floated to a Southern sea,
And melted into heaven.

He needs no tears, who lived a noble life; We will not weep for him who died so well, But we will gather round the hearth, and tell

The story of his strife;

Such homage suits him well,

Better than funeral pomp or passing bell. What tale of peril and self-sacrifice! Prison'd amid the fastnesses of ice,

With hunger howling o'er the wastes of

snow!

Night lengthening into months, the ravenous floe

Crunching the massive ships, as the white bear

Crunches his prey. The insufficient share Of loathsome food,

The lethargy of famine, the despair

Urging to labor, nervelessly pursued,
Toil done with skinny arms, and faces hued
Like pallid masks, while dolefully behind
Glimmer'd the fading embers of a mind!
That awful hour, when through the prostrate
band

Delirium stalk'd, laying his burning hand
Upon the ghastly foreheads of the crew.
The whispers of rebellion, faint and few
At first, but deepening ever till they grew
Into black thoughts of murder; such the
throng

Of horrors-bound the hero. High the song
Should be that hymns the noble part he play'd!
Sinking himself, yet ministering aid

To all around him. By a mighty will
Living defiant of the wants that kill,

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On the Toey-Wan stood Tattnall, Stephen Trenchard by his side

"Old Man" Tattnall, he who dared at Vera Cruz,

Saw here, crippled by the cannon; saw there, throttled by the tide,

Men of English blood and speech - could he refuse?

I'll be damned, says he to Trenchard, if old Tattnall's standing by,

Seeing white men butchered here by such a foe. Where's my barge? No side-arms, mind you ! See those English fight and die Blood is thicker, sir, than water. Let us go.

Quick we man the boat, and quicker plunge into that devil's brew

"An official call," and Tattnall went in state.

Trenchard's hurt, our flag in ribbons, and the rocking barge shot through,

Hart, our coxswain, dies beneath the Chinese hate;

But the cheers those English give us as we gain their Admiral's ship

Make the shattered boat and weary arms seem light

Then the rare smile from "Old" Tattnall, and Hope's hearty word and grip, Lying wounded, bleeding, brave in hell's despite.

Tattnall nods, and we go forward, find a gun no longer fought

What is peace to us when all its crew lie

dead?

One bright English lad brings powder and a wounded man the shot,

And we scotch that Chinese dragon, tail and

head.

Hands are shaken, faith is plighted, sounds our Captain's cheery call,

In a British boat we speed us fast and far; And the Toey-Wan and Tattnall down the ebb-tide slide and fall

To the launches lying moaning by the bar.

Eager for an English vengeance, battle-light on every face,

See the Clustered Stars lead on the Triple Cross!

Cheering, swinging into action, valiant Hope takes heart of grace

From the cannon's cloudy roar, the lanyards' toss

How they fought, those fighting English! How they cheered the Toey-Wan, Cheered our sailors, cheered "Old" Tattnall, grim and gray!

And their cheers ring down the ages as they rang beneath the sun

O'er those bubbling, troubled waters far away.

Ebbs and flows the muddy Pei-Ho by the gulf of Pechili,

Idly floats beside the stream the dragon-flag; Past the batteries of China, looking westward still you see

Lazy junks along the lazy river lag. Let the long, long years drip slowly on that lost and ancient land,

Ever dear one scene to hearts of gallant men; There's a hand-clasp and a heart-throb, there's a word we understand: Blood is thicker, sir, than water, now as then. WALLACE RICE.

In the fall of 1860 the Prince of Wales, travelling as Baron Renfrew, paid a visit to the United States, lasting from September 21 to October 20. He was the recipient of many attentions, and a great ball was given in his honor at the Academy of Music in New York city. While the ball was in progress, a portion of the floor gave way, but no one was injured.

BARON RENFREW'S BALL
[October, 1860]

"T WAS a grand display was the prince's ball,
A pageant or fête, or what you may call
A brilliant coruscation,

Where ladies and knights of noble worth
Enchanted a prince of royal birth

By a royal demonstration.

Like queens arrayed in their regal guise, They charmed the prince with dazzling eyes, Fair ladies of rank and station,

Till the floor gave way, and down they sprawled,

In a tableaux style, which the artists called A floor-all decoration.

At the prince's feet like flowers they were laid, In the brightest bouquet ever made,

For a prince's choice to falter Perplexed to find, where all were rare, Which was the fairest of the fair

To cull for a queenly altar.

But soon the floor was set aright,
And Peter Cooper's face grew bright,

When, like the swell of an organ,
All hearts beat time to the first quadrille,
And the prince confessed to a joyous thrill
As he danced with Mrs. Morgan.

Then came the waltz - the Prince's Own And every bar and brilliant tone

Had music's sweetest grace on; But the prince himself ne'er felt its charm Till he slightly clasped, with circling arm, That lovely girl, Miss Mason. But ah! the work went bravely on, And meek-eyed Peace a trophy won

By the magic art of the dancers; For the daring prince's next exploit Was to league with Scott's Camilla Hoyt, And overcome the Lancers. Besides these three, he deigned to yield His hand to Mrs. M. B. Field,

Miss Jay and Miss Van Buren; Miss Russell, too, was given a place All beauties famous for their grace

From Texas to Lake Huron.

With Mrs. Kernochan he "lanced,"
With Mrs. Edward Cooper danced,

With Mrs. Belmont capered;
With fair Miss Fish, in fairy rig,
He tripped a sort of royal jig,

And next Miss Butler favored.
And thus, 'mid many hopes and fears,
By the brilliant light of the chandeliers,

Did they gayly quaff and revel;
Well pleased to charm a royal prince-
The only one from old England since

George Washington was a rebel. And so the fleeting hours went by, And watches stopped-lest Time should fly Or that they winding wanted; Old matrons dozed, and papas smiled, And many a fair one was beguiled

As the prince danced on, undaunted.
"T is now a dream the prince's ball,
Its vanished glories, one and all,
The scenes of the fairy tales;
For Cinderella herself was there,
And Barnum keeps for trial fair
The beautiful slipper deposited there

By his highness, the Prince of Wales.
CHARLES GRAHAM HALPINE.