Where the Great Chief's sullen crest
Looks over the land,
The splendour floods from the west,
Ruddied and grand.

Like a vast Armada's wrecked
And ravaged pride,
Reeling over a flecked
And crimsoned tide.

Or a cachalot lashing the spray
In his wounded throe,
On a South sea far away
Where the whalers go.

Till the light is gone and the skies
Are cold and dree
As a blue gulf in the ice
Of a Polar sea.