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     With an unscorched wing he has hurried on,
where the fires of Hecla glow
     On the darkly beautiful sky above and the ancient ice below.

He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes!
     and the quiet lake shall feel
The torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to
     the skater's heel;
And the streams which danced on the broken
     rocks, or sang to the leaning grass,
Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in mournful silence pass.

He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes!
     Let us meet him as we may,
And turn with the light of the parlor-fire his evil
     power away;
And gather closer the circle round, when that fire—
     light dances high,
And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as
     his sounding wing goes by!


The Merrimac.

‘The Indians speak of a beautiful river, far to the south, which they call Merrimac.’—--Sieur de Monts, 1604.

stream of my fathers! sweetly still
The sunset rays thy valley fill;
Poured slantwise down the long defile,
Wave, wood, and spire beneath them smile.

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