_Poets tell of the sunny climes
And speak in beautiful lines
Of the flowers, the birds and song
Of Summer's rapturous throng._
_They liken it to the freshness of the dew,
They speak of smiling skies of blue.
The awakening bud--the breath of June
Is ever the same old poet's tune._
_But I would speak of the dazzling snows
That only our great Northland knows.
There is a beauty yet untold
A majestic power a poet cannot unfold._
_There is a rapture in plains of virgin-white
In the snow-clad mountain height,
And a solemnity so deep--austere
That one feels a God-like presence near._
_There is a wonder in the deep, deep silence,
And the mighty wind's defiance
Mingled with the Spirit of Unconquered Might
And the undefined mystery of the night._
_The call of the North I cannot define,
It has a lure of the great--sublime.
Man is a being as yet too small
To explain or resist the Northland's call._
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Explorations by Adventurers of the H.B.C.
(_Continued from December Number_)