And that false dawn, long nickering, died away,
And the Sun came not forth, and Heaven withheld the day.

O King Hyperion, o'er the Delphic dale
Reigning meanwhile in glory, Ocean know
Thine absence, and outstretch'd an icy veil,
A marble pavement, o'er his waters blue;
Past the Varangian fiord and Zembla hoar,
And from Petsora north to dark Arzina's shore:--

An iron ridge o'erhung with toppling snow
And giant beards of icicled cascade:--
Where, frost-imprison'd as the long mouths go,
The _Good Hope_ and her mate-ship lay embay'd;
And those brave crews knew that all hope was gone;
England be seen no more; no more the living sun.

A store that daily lessens 'neath their eyes;
A little dole of light and fire and food:--
While Night upon them like a vampyre lies
Bleaching the frame and thinning out the blood;
And through the ships the frost-bit timbers groan,
And the Guloine prowls round, with dull heart-curdling moan.

Then sometimes on the soul, far off, how far!
Came back the shouting crowds, the cannon-roar,
The latticed palace glittering like a star,
The buoyant Thames, the green, sweet English shore,
The heartful prayers, the fireside blaze and bliss,
The little faces bright, and woman's last, last kiss.