Their cold icy cradle, thy tempests come forth.
Thy blue robe is borrowed from clearest of skies,
Thy sandals were made where the driven snow lies,
And stars, seldom seen in this low world, are blest
To shine in thy coronet—brilliant Nor-West.
Health bounds to thy pathway, joy shouts in thy course,
The virtues of manhood thy breathings enforce;
The pure, and the fair, and the brave, and the free,
Are purer, and fairer, and braver, for thee;
As flames sweeping wildly o’er mountain and heath,