The Rock-Tomb of Bradore

A drear and desolate shore!Where no tree unfolds its leaves,And never the spring wind weavesGreen grass for the hunter’s tread;A land forsaken and dead,Where the ghostly icebergs goAnd come with the ebb and flowOf the waters of Bradore!

A wanderer, from a landBy summer breezes fanned,Looked round him, awed, subdued,By the dreadful solitude,Hearing alone the cryOf sea-birds clanging by,The crash and grind of the floe,Wail of wind and wash of tide.“O wretched land!” he cried,“Land of all lands the worst,God forsaken and curst!Thy gates of rock should showThe words the Tuscan seerRead in the Realm of Woe:Hope entereth not here!”

Lo! at his feet there stoodA block of smooth larch wood,Waif of some wandering wave,Beside a rock-closed caveBy Nature fashioned for a grave;Safe from the ravening bearAnd fierce fowl of the air,Wherein to rest was laidA twenty summers’ maid,Whose blood had equal shareOf the lands of vine and snow,Half French, half Eskimo.In letters uneffaced,Upon the block were tracedThe grief and hope of man,And thus the legend ran:“We loved her!Words cannot tell how well!We loved her!God loved her!And called her home to peace and rest.We love her!”

The stranger paused and read.“O winter land!” he said,“Thy right to be I own;God leaves thee not alone.And if thy fierce winds blowOver drear wastes of rock and snow,And at thy iron gatesThe ghostly iceberg waits,Thy homes and hearts are dear.Thy sorrow o’er thy sacred dustIs sanctified by hope and trust;God’s love and man’s are here.And love where’er it goesMakes its own atmosphere;Its flowers of ParadiseTake root in the eternal ice,And bloom through Polar snows!”