proud defiance, in their
solitude, to man's triumphant daring. Who shall pierce the ancient
prison-house where Nature's might, in mightier chains of adamantine
frost, lies fettered, since Creation? Who shall live where promontories
huge, of piled ice, like monstrous fragments of primeval worlds tossed
on the surge of Chaos, over the waves rear their triumphant heads, and
laugh to scorn the undreaded kinghood of the lordly sea?

A fearful challenge! yet the charmed spell, which summons man to high
discovery, is ever vocal in the outward world, though they alone may
hear it, who have hearts responsive to its tone. The gale of spring,
breathing sweet balm over the western waters, called forth that gifted
old adventurer[10] to seek the perfumes of spice-laden winds, far in the
Indian Isles. Yea, there is power in Nature's solemn music. All have
heard the sighs of Winter in the middle air, and seen the skirts of his
cloud-woven robe lingering upon the misty mountain-top: but years
rolled on, ere man might understand the mystic invitation of that call
to seek the Monarch in his Arctic home.

At length that call is answered. Daringly yon gallant ship, towards the
Polar Star, walks the untrodden pathways of old Ocean, leaving the
haunts of man. Even now, the bounds are passed where silently the Boreal
Morn[11] folds and unfolds, in swiftest interchange, her silver robe of
alternating light over the midnight Heaven. There is a change in every
sight and sound. White glaciers clash on the tormented waves, in fierce
career waving eternally, and hoary whales, with musical din[12] booming
along the deep, breathe forth in giant chorus, wondrously, the welcome
of the Spirit of the North.

Joy to the brave! That old phantasmal veil which checked the view of dim
antiquity, shrinks from their eagle glance, while fabled hills and
regions of impenetrable ice fade in the blue expanse of mighty
bays[13]--now spread the bosom of the expectant sail unto the Eastern
breeze, and while the prow furrows the yielding waters, image forth high
dreams of lofty hope--the joyous bound of billows gushing between parted
shores, where Asia's rocky brow for ever frowns on the opposing
continent. And, borne on spirit-plumed wings, let fancy soar far from
that sunless clime, to the warm South, where soft skies slumber through
the cloudless noon, o'er the gold palaces of fair Cathay.

Why pause ye in mid ocean? Still the sail swells to the voiceful breeze;