10
Where desarts stretch in trackless snow,
And broad lakes rise that never flow,
And rocks of frost, with frightful ledge,
Hang sparkling o'er the water's edge.
There scarce the sun reluctant throws
A faint beam o'er the polar snows;
But wakes to speed his glowing car,
And shuns the icy coast from far;
Pale float his locks on frosted skies,
As in the waste the torch light dies.
There life's frail lamp with livid ray
Burns coldly in its cell of clay,
And lights a weak and dwindled race,
Devoid of science, wit or grace.
For them no spring, with gentle care,
Paints the young bud and scents the air;
Nor autumn bids the loaded stem
Scatter its fruitage fair for them.
No storied page, or learned strife,
Or arts that lend delight to life,
Or lighted dome, or festive song,
Shed lustre o'er their winter long.
But wrapt in skins, by long pursuit
Torn rudely, from the slaughter'd brute,
Close throng'd in hidden vaults they rest,
Within the drear earths' mouldering breast,
Hear the wild storm above them pour,
Or sunk in sleep forget its roar.
