Complete Poetical Works. Bret Harte

      Where the short-legged Esquimaux

       Waddle in the ice and snow,

       And the playful Polar bear

       Nips the hunter unaware;

       Where by day they track the ermine,

       And by night another vermin—

       Segment of the frigid zone,

       Where the temperature alone

       Warms on St. Elias' cone;

       Polar dock, where Nature slips

       From the ways her icy ships;

       Land of fox and deer and sable,

       Shore end of our western cable—

       Let the news that flying goes

       Thrill through all your Arctic floes,

       And reverberate the boast

       From the cliffs off Beechey's coast,

       Till the tidings, circling round

       Every bay of Norton Sound,

       Throw the vocal tide-wave back

       To the isles of Kodiac.

       Let the stately Polar bears

       Waltz around the pole in pairs,

       And the walrus, in his glee,

       Bare his tusk of ivory;

       While the bold sea-unicorn

       Calmly takes an extra horn;

       All ye Polar skies, reveal your

       Very rarest of parhelia;

       Trip it, all ye merry dancers,

       In the airiest of "Lancers;"

       Slide, ye solemn glaciers, slide,

       One inch farther to the tide,

       Nor in rash precipitation

       Upset Tyndall's calculation.

       Know you not what fate awaits you,

       Or to whom the future mates you?

       All ye icebergs, make salaam—

       You belong to Uncle Sam!

       On the spot where Eugene Sue

       Led his wretched Wandering Jew,

       Stands a form whose features strike

       Russ and Esquimaux alike.

       He it is whom Skalds of old

       In their Runic rhymes foretold;

       Lean of flank and lank of jaw,

       See the real Northern Thor!

       See the awful Yankee leering

       Just across the Straits of Behring;

       On the drifted snow, too plain,

       Sinks his fresh tobacco stain,

       Just beside the deep inden-

       Tation of his Number 10.

       Leaning on his icy hammer

       Stands the hero of this drama,

       And above the wild-duck's clamor,

       In his own peculiar grammar,

       With its linguistic disguises,

       La! the Arctic prologue rises:

       "Wall, I reckon 'tain't so bad,

       Seein' ez 'twas all they had.

       True, the Springs are rather late,

       And early Falls predominate;

       But the ice-crop's pretty sure,

       And the air is kind o' pure;

       'Tain't so very mean a trade,

       When the land is all surveyed.

       There's a right smart chance for fur-chase

       All along this recent purchase,

       And, unless the stories fail,

       Every fish from cod to whale;

       Rocks, too; mebbe quartz; let's see—

       'Twould be strange if there should be—

       Seems I've heerd such stories told;

       Eh!—why, bless us—yes, it's gold!"

       While the blows are falling thick

       From his California pick,

       You may recognize the Thor

       Of the vision that I saw—

       Freed from legendary glamour,

       See the real magician's hammer.