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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  
E'en the profoundest chill, as now—a torpid pulse, a brain un- 
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.
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