Thy silver robes flow o'er the sky
Our great High Priest!
Our world doth wear
Thy livery fair
From sparkling mount to jewel rare;
And every lightest flake
That drops into the lake;
And all the solemn beauty spread
Across the land, by thee is shed:--
Most magical thy influences are
Thou wond'rous Star, Lueladar!




PART SECOND.

OLIVE had crossed the mystic sea again,
Which spread its silver circle round the Pole.
Her feet were weary and her thoughts were sad.
Immeasurably tall the icy Thug,--
That wond'rous mountain of whose old renown
The Arctic world thought with exalted hearts--
Stood in her path and seemed to bar her way.
Four months of darkness in the valley slept,
Freezing in silent dreams; the Moon did crown
The hoary brow of the old headland, Thug,
With a dim glory, as of silver locks:--
It held its head aloft and seemed to be
Peering through heaven's roof upon its God.