There are strange ships west of the lonely isles
Where the red volcanoes burn and freeze;
There's a fading wake o'er the misty miles,
There are smokes that trouble the Smoky Seas.
There are corpses swept from the sinking hull,
As the steamer dips to the swelling gale,
For the rising shark and the wheeling gull
That hunt the sea on the Golden Trail.
The storm sweeps out from its Polar den,
Till the air grows dense with the cutting snow;