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 unnerv'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.