Themes and Variations/The North-East Passage
THE NORTH-EAST PASSAGE.
Nordenskiold—1878-80.
Well done, old Norseman! When the polar star
Beckoned thee to her ice-encircled home,
Thow didst not wait; but, lifting sail and spar,
Flew with the summer wind across the foam.
—The breakers’ boom pursues thee—heed it not!
They sweep across thy prow—’tis but in play.
Heed not that in some wave-lamented spot
The bones of many a good ship waste away,
From out the mist there sounds a ghostly call—
Stop all our ears! ’Tis but the avalanche fall!
Beckoned thee to her ice-encircled home,
Thow didst not wait; but, lifting sail and spar,
Flew with the summer wind across the foam.
—The breakers’ boom pursues thee—heed it not!
They sweep across thy prow—’tis but in play.
Heed not that in some wave-lamented spot
The bones of many a good ship waste away,
From out the mist there sounds a ghostly call—
Stop all our ears! ’Tis but the avalanche fall!
And on they steamed, passed the great Northern Cape,
By all his chiding thunders undismayed,
Where fits of sunshine light his frowning shape;
And saw grey Norway’s cliffs behind them fade.
On—like the Indian hunter tracking game;
On—past the lonely Nova-Zemblian coast;
Past wild spray-sheeted capes without a name,
And low Siberian hills, a dreary host.
On, past the never-ending Asian shore,
No turning now! Their hand is on the door.
By all his chiding thunders undismayed,
Where fits of sunshine light his frowning shape;
And saw grey Norway’s cliffs behind them fade.
On—like the Indian hunter tracking game;
On—past the lonely Nova-Zemblian coast;
Past wild spray-sheeted capes without a name,
And low Siberian hills, a dreary host.
On, past the never-ending Asian shore,
No turning now! Their hand is on the door.
But winter, hiding just within the end,
Flung o’er the ship a cobweb light and fine,—
Saying ‘Stay—for I fain would talk with thee, my friend!
Sit in my house, and drink mine ancient wine!’
And fast ensnared within that frosty net,
Nine months they wearied of the sleeted sky;
Till July, with her raiment dripping wet,
Stole the white key, and signed to them to fly.
So out they slipped, and passed the Arctic gates,
First western wayfarers through Behring’s Straits.
Flung o’er the ship a cobweb light and fine,—
Saying ‘Stay—for I fain would talk with thee, my friend!
Sit in my house, and drink mine ancient wine!’
And fast ensnared within that frosty net,
Nine months they wearied of the sleeted sky;
Till July, with her raiment dripping wet,
Stole the white key, and signed to them to fly.
So out they slipped, and passed the Arctic gates,
First western wayfarers through Behring’s Straits.