And in crystalline splendor, the moon, in November, shines bright, as the lynx caterwauls.
From Moosehead the wild loon is screaming, from Rangely the trout jumps at play;
And from Kathadyn’s bold peak, comes the osprey’s fierce shriek, while the brown bear creeps near to its prey.
Oh! that is the land for the Vikings; yea, that is the kingdom of rest;
In the rude deer-skin boats, the warrior gloats, as the strangers press on to the West.
There is thunder for Thor and for Odin; there is silver for Tyr and Brogé,
In Jotunheim’s palace, there is envy and malice; but nothing but love far away:
Come, Vikings, hoist up your rude anchors! Come, seamen, row hard, as ye should!
And steer to the West, where there’s peace and there’s rest; steer straightway to Vinland the Good.