Again her childish fancy paints
Those silvery flashes as the light
Left by the wings of blessed saints,
Who take to God their happy flighty.
Far to the east stands Hecla, crowned
With roaring flame, and girt around
With everlasting icy chains,
Outpouring from his lava-veins
Rivers of fire, that red and wide
Are rolling down his snow-clad side.
The boiling Geysers thundering shoot
From seething fountains vast as seas
That lie beneath his burning foot,
And swing their arms upon the breeze,
Like giant palms of crystal, wrought
Till light as from Arachne caught.
Of the old landscape, oh, how clear
Each sight and sound strikes eye and ear !
And yet the midnight sun hath cast
For fifty years his annual smile