The Mystic Isle Of The "Land Of The North Wind."

(Keewatin.)     A land untamed, whose myriad isles     Are set in branching lakes that vein     Illimitable silent woods,     Voiceful in Fall, when their defiles,     Rich with the birch's golden rain,     See winging past the wildfowl broods.     Blue channels seem its dented rocks,     So steeply smoothed, but crusted o'er     With rounded mosses, green and grey,     That oft a Southern coral mocks     Upon this Northern fir-clad shore,     'Neath tufted copse on cape and bay.     Here sunshine from serener skies     Than Europe's ocean-islands know     Ripens the berry for the bear,     And pierces where the beaver plies     His water-forestry, or slow     The moose seeks out a breezy lair.     The blaze scarce spangles bush or ferns,     But lights the white pine's velvet fringe     And its dark Norway sister's boughs;     At eve between their shadows burns     The lake, where shafts of crimson tinge     The savage war-flotilla's prows.     Far circling round, these seem to shun     An isle more fair than all beside,     As if some lurking foe were there,     Although upon its heights the sun     Shines glorious, and its forest pride     Is fanned by summer's joyous air.     For 'mid these isles is one of fear,     And none may ever breathe its name.     There the Great Spirit loves to be;     Its haunted groves and waters clear     Are homes of thunder and of flame;     All pass it silently and flee,     Save they who potent magic learn,     Who lonely in that dreaded fane     Resist nine days the awful powers:     And, fasting, each through pain may earn     The knowledge daring mortals gain,     If life survive those secret hours!