Man has o'ercome the lion's burning zone,
As that of venoms and of reptiles' bale,
And vexed the ocean where the nautili sail
The track which galleons blazoned as their own.

But farther than Spitzbergen's breast of stone,
Than whirlpools dire, or snows that never fail,
The warm, free polar waves the isles assail
Where flag of mariner has never flown.

Depart! The insuperable ice I'll dare,
For my stout spirit would no longer bear
The fame that wreathes the Conquerors of Gold.

I go, to mount the utmost promontory,
And feel the sea, that silences enfold,
Caress my pride with whispered hope of glory.