The Embers | Page 8

The meadows of the Pole;
It whistled my gay hunters forth,
It bugled in my soul.
On plateaux of the constant snow
I heard the meteors whir;
I saw the red wolves nor'ward go
From my low huts of fir.

The dun moose ran the deep ravine,
The musk-ox ranged the plain;
The hunter's song dripped in between
In notes of scarlet rain.

The land was mine: its lonely pride,
Its distant deep desires;
And I abode, as hunters bide,
With joy beside its fires.

Into a New World wandered I,
A world austere, sublime;
And unseen feet came sauntering by;
A voice with ardent chime
Rang down the idle lanes of sleep;
I waked: the night was still;
I saw my star its sentry keep
Along a southern hill.

O flaming star! my courier star!
My herald, fine and tall!
You gestured from your opal car,
I answered to that call.
I rose; the flumes of snow I trod,
I trailed to southward then;
I left behind the camps of God,
And sought the tents of men.

And where a princely face looked through
The curtains of the play
Of life, O star, you paused; I knew
The comrade of my day.
And good the trails that I have trod,
My courier star before;
And good the nor'land camps of God:
And though I lodge no more

Where stalwart deeds and dreams rejoice,