The Voice Of The North.

You have builded your ships in the sun-lands,         And launched them with song and wine;     They are boweled with your stanchest engines,         And masted with bravest pine;     You have met in your closet councils,         With your plans and your prayers to God     For a fortunate wind to waft you         Where never a foot has trod.     And now you follow the polar star         To the seat of the old Norse Kings,     Past the death-white halls of Valhalla,         Where the Norn to the tempest sings--     Follow the steady needle         That cleaves to its steady star     To the uttermost realms of Odin         And the warlike thunderer, Thor.     Far through the icy silence,         Where the glacier's teeth hang white,     And even the sun-god Baldur,         Looks down in vague affright,     You flutter like startled spectres,         With a prayer on your lips for the goal--     To stand for one thrilling moment         At the awful, nameless Pole.     But lo! in that hour shall greet you,         At the end of your perilous path,     A mockery far more bitter         Than the sting of the frost king's wrath,     For this is the meed you shall gather         In the lands no man has trod:     The finger that beckoned you onward         Shall lift and point to God!     1903