Of That Blithe Throat of Thine.

OF THAT BLITHE THROAT OF THINE.

[More than eighty-three degrees north—about a good day's steaming distance to the Pole by one of our fast oceaners in clear water—Greely the explorer heard the
song of a single snow-bird merrily sounding over the desolation.] Of that blithe throat of thine from arctic bleak and blank, I'll mind the lesson, solitary bird—let me too welcome chilling
drifts, E'en the profoundest chill, as now—a torpid pulse, a brain un-
nerv'd, Old age land-lock'd within its winter bay—(cold, cold, O cold!) These snowy hairs, my feeble arm, my frozen feet, For them thy faith, thy rule I take, and grave it to the last; Not summer's zones alone—not chants of youth, or south's warm
tides alone, But held by sluggish floes, pack'd in the northern ice, the cumulus
of years, These with gay heart I also sing.