390 
LETTERS FROM HIGH LATITUDES. 
THE BLACK DEATH OE BERGEN. 
i. 
What can ail the Bergen Burghers 
That they leave their stoups of wine ? 
Elinging up the hill like jagers, 
At the hour they’re wont to dine ! 
See, the shifting groups are fringing 
Bock and ridge with gay attire, 
Bright as Northern streamers tinging 
Peak and crag with fitful fire ! 
ii. 
Towards the cliff their steps are bending, 
Westward turns their eager gaze, 
Whence a stately ship, ascending, 
Slowly cleaves the golden haze. 
Landward floats the apparition— 
“ Is it, can it be the same ? ” 
Erantic cries of recognition 
Shout a long-lost vessel’s name ! 
hi. 
Years ago had she departed— 
Castled poop and gilded stern; 
Weeping women, broken-hearted. 
Long had waited her return. 
When the midnight sun wheeled downwards, 
But to kiss the ocean’s verge— 
When the noonday sun, a moment, 
Peeped above the Wintry surge. 
