Classic Poem

But now the greenest moss she culls with care,
And dries the grass for Anningait to wear;
Of softest skins a fishing-coat she wrought,
Of curious form, like him of whom she thought;
A boat of toughest skins together sew'd,
And as she work'd, each tender vow renew'd;
Then in soft numbers each good genius prays,
To guide her swain thro' Terror's pathless ways;
And that his nervous arms might stronger prove
Than the fierce Bear, nor aught annoy her love;
That his swift darts unerring he might guide;
That his tough boat might bravely stem the tide;
That the crack'd ice might ne'er his feet betray;
That his harpoon might never miss the prey.
Thus in lone sadness Ajutt still remains,
Nor joins the maidens on the jocund plains;
Her locks unbraided o'er her shoulders flow,
In beauteous negligence and pomp of woe;
The rural sports she now no more adorns,
Nor thinks of joy till Anningait returns;
While he, by calms detain'd, or tempests tost,
Vainly attempts to reach the destin'd coast;
Sighing he stands, and views the ruffled main,
And thus to life compares the varied scene: —