The moon goes down beneath the world—
She lives to die!
The banners of the stars are furled,
The comets fly;
The red sun shines,
And still declines,
And after him the darkness pines;
But thou art e’er the same—
No flickering of thy flame—
No sinking down in time to rise
Doth change thy splendor in the skies:
For this we worship thee, afar,
Most glorious Star, Lueladar!
Look with thy bright and burning eye
Upon our feast!
Thy silver robes flow o’er the sky
Our great High Priest!
Our world doth wear
Thy livery fair
From sparkling mount to jewel rare;
And every lightest flake
That drops into the lake;
And all the solemn beauty spread
Across the land, by thee is shed:—
Most magical thy influences are
Thou wond’rous Star, Lueladar!
Olive had crossed the mystic sea again,
Which spread its silver circle round the Pole.
Her feet were weary and her thoughts were sad.
Immeasurably tall the icy Thug,—
That wond’rous mountain of whose old renown
The Arctic world thought with exalted hearts—
Stood in her path and seemed to bar her way.
Four months of darkness in the valley slept,
Freezing in silent dreams; the Moon did crown
The hoary brow of the old headland, Thug,
With a dim glory, as of silver locks:—
It held its head aloft and seemed to be
Peering through heaven’s roof upon its God.
“Ah, BERTHO! BERTHO!”
the young traveller cried,
While rapid tears ran down her grief-touched cheeks:—
“Is there no way save this? My feet refuse
To do the bidding of my heart; no more
This faithful bosom thy delight shall be—
No more thine eyes shall smile into mine own
Till both swim full of bliss—no more thy mouth
Breathe its soft words and kisses on my cheek,
Naming me thine—thine only—thine forever!
Where art thou, BERTHO? BERTHO! Cruel Thug;
Sink thyself in the sea, presumptuous mount,
Till I can pluck my lover from thy breast!”
The echo of her heart did mock her cry;
Long time, she lay, half perished, on the snow,
Till love revived, with its eternal fires,
The warmth of purpose in her chilly breast;
Then, springing to her feet, she shook her curls,
In golden billows from her brows, the while
That a sweet resoluteness on her lip
Settled itself, and triumphed in her eyes:—
“Torrent nor precipice, nor jutting crag—
Night, spirits, ghouls, nor ravenous wild beasts,
Distance, nor time, shall fright me from the way,”
She said, and silently began to climb,
Though avalanches roared from steep to steep
And fear increased with every