THE WOLF. 61 
A dreary land of mountains cold, 
With ice-crags splintered hoar and old, 
Jaggéd with woods of storm-beat pines, 
Where a cold moon gleams, a cold sun shines ! 
And all through this dismal land we'll go 
In a dog-drawn sledge o’er the frozen snow, 
On either hand the ice-rocks frore, 
And a waste of trackless snow before! 
Where are the men to guide us on? 
Men! in these deserts there are none. 
Men come not here, unless to track 
The ermine white or marten black. 
Here we must speed alone.—But hark! 
What sound was that? The wild wolf’s bark! 
The terrible wolf !—Is he anigh, 
With his gaunt, lean frame and_blood-shot 
eye? 
Yes !—across the snow I saw the track 
Where they have sped on, a hungry pack ; 
And see how the eager dogs rush on, 
For they scent the track where the wolf has 
gone. 
And beast and man are alike afraid 
Of that cruelest creature that e’er was made! 
G 
