To rest, unless some prowling wolf should keep thee watchful still,
While lonely through the midnight sounds his wail upon the hill.
And when the storm raves around, and thick and blinding snow
Comes whirling in wild eddies around, above, below;
Still all unmoved thou’lt keep thy pace as manfully as when
Thy matchless mettle first I tried in lone Pasquia’s glen.
Thus day by day we’ll pierce the wilds where rolls the Arctic stream,
Where Athabasca’s silent lakes, through whispering pine-trees gleam.
Until, where far Unchagah’s flood by giant cliffs is crown’d,
Thy bells will feed the echoes, long hungering for a sound.