David

  Eternal cold of silence, where each sound
  Dies in its birth, and Death’s pale henchmen meet
  With soft Lethean traps unwary feet
  Or ride with hell’s white steed and slavering hound;
  Which of us, searching selfward, has not found
  This desolate realm, and long black seams, that greet
  Our souls with recollections of defeat,
  And torrid fossils in the frozen ground?
  Not he, who comes among us as a king;
  Strange were the secret waste and granite walls
  To him whose reverent feet have travelled far
  Where duty beckons and adventure calls.
  He steers his course, by one red tropic star,
  Where ripples the green robe of the lilting spring.