Amid the frigid regions of the North,
The frost King reigns with undisputed sway,
The Icebergs huge and tall, grim sentry keep,
That few may with impunity explore
The mysteries of those rigid, drear domains:
Too late, Britaunia's titled Son this sad
Truth learned, who with his gallant band assayed
Through Northern seas to force their way.
And now from his own icy fettered realms
Stern winter comes, his forehead 'wrapped in
clouds,'
His beard made white with 'other snows than those
Of age'-his sceptre in his grasp;
His dread approach is heralded by storms
Of blinding sleet, and noisy, rattled hail;
Upon the furious Northern blast he rides-
With gloomy desolation in his track,
His frosty breath congeals to marble streams
And waters wide, where late the Steamer like
A 'thing of life', sped through the yielding wave.
Sometimes in softened mood he clothes the earth
In vestal robes of spotless hue-and decks
With silvery tassels, trees and shrubs-
Which 'neath their lovely burdens bend
But the old wintry Monarch gray and grim,
Is but a subject of the King of Kings-

His
word to obey-'tis He who giveth
'Snow like wool'-like ashes scattereth
'Hoary frost'-and 'ice like morsels' cast:
'Where is the
Man
so vainly bold,
That dares defy
His
piercing cold?'