THE GREENLAND CONVERT.
Mid-Winter in the arctic zone,
On Greenland's sterile shore,
The frozen bay forgets to moan,
Though wildest tempests roar;
No morn the shuddering skies to cheer,
No sun the noon to light,
Unpitying darkness, long and drear,
Commingleth day with night.
Close in each subterranean cell
The shivering tenants clung,
While snows on snows incessant fell,
And whirlwind banners swung;
Around the seal-fed lamp they drew,
That spark of life to fan,
Which gleam'd with feeble radiance through
Those effigies of man.
Keen frosts, like subtle serpents, stole
To every secret nook,
And from the pulses of the soul
Their lingering fervour took.
Dire sounds! the fearful icebergs quake,
The solid rocks are riven,
As though opposing thunders spake
Harsh words of war in heaven.
