He comes—he comes—the Frost Spirit comes!—from the frozen Labrador—
From the icy bridge of the Northern seas, which the white bear wanders o’er—
Where the fisherman’s sail is stiff with ice, and the [luckless forms] below
In the [sunless cold] of the lingering night into marble statues grow!
He comes—he comes—the Frost Spirit comes!—on the rushing Northern blast,
And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed as his [fearful breath] went past.
With an [unscorched wing] he has hurried on, where the fires of Hecla glow
On the darkly beautiful sky above and the [ancient ice] below.
He comes—he comes—the Frost Spirit comes!—and the quiet lake shall feel
The [torpid touch] of his [glazing breath], and ring to the skater’s heel;