62 Our North Land. 



She had sickened and died, as Eskimos die, 



In a hut made of snow, 'neath a cold sullen sky, 



Without Christian hope ; 

 But she saw through the mists of the valley of shade, 

 And spoke of a place that death can't invade, 



The glad hunting land — 

 Where the deer and the seal and the walrus are found, 

 And the rarest of furs in plenty abound, 



On that beautiful strand. 

 She died, with the skin of a bear 'neath her head, 

 With the hides of reindeer and seal for her bed, 



In stillness and gloom. 

 They carried her out to this bleak table rock, 

 Without formal rite or cantation to mock 



The last solemn deed. 

 It was not a grave, but a last resting-place ; 

 A rude sepulchre, the tomb of her race. 



'Twas less than her need. 

 Nor casket, nor coffin, nor shroud to disguise 

 The ghastly remains, which, exposed to the skies, 



Lay scarcely at rest ; 

 The hard granite boulders were thick on her clay, 

 That vultures, perchance, might not steal away 



The mouldering dust. 

 But these were ill-shaped, nor did they conceal 

 The rude winding-sheet made of skins of the seal, 



Or the bead-woven fringe ; 

 Her long raven hair, in three narrow braids, 

 That survives in all tombs when everything fades, 



Wore only a tinge — 

 Showed only a spot, or a blur, or a stain 

 From the iron-charged rocks washed down by the rain. 



Turning sadly away from this Eskimo tomb, 

 I was forced to think of the fate or the doom 



Of this singular race ; 

 But the answer is sealed until that great day 

 When tribes, and people and tongues shall obey, 



And meet face to face. 



This channel, or McLelan Strait as we called it, passes through 

 the high gneiss formation, from Ungava Bay to the Atlantic. Its 

 western entrance is about seven miles south of the cape, its eastern 

 probably ten miles or more. Its average breadth is not over three- 

 quarters of a mile ; in some places it is a mile and a-half, and then 



