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The Pamphlet Collection of Sir Robert Stout: Volume 8

The Lost Expedition

The Lost Expedition.

Lift—lift, ye mists, from off the silent coast,
Folded in endless winter's chill embraces;
Unshroud for us awhile our brave ones lost!
Let us behold their faces!

page 113

In vain—the North has hid them from our sight;
The snow their winding sheet,—then only dirges
The groan of ice-bergs in the polar night
Racked by the savage surges.

No Funeral Torches with a smoky glare
Shone a farewell upon their shrouded faces;—
No monumental pillar tall and fair;—
Towers o'er their resting-places.

But Northern Streamers flare the long night through
Over the cliffs stupendous, fraught with peril,
Of ice-bergs, tinted with a ghostly hue
Of amethyst and beryl.

No human tears upon their graves are shed—
Tears of Domestic Love, or pity Holy;
But snow-flakes from the gloomy sky o'erhead,
Down-shuddering, settle slowly.

Yet History shrines them with her mighty dead,
The hero-seamen of this isle of Britain,
And, when the brighter scroll of Heaven is read,
There will their names be written!