Late in August we embarked in the little mail boat, the _Ceres_, homeward bound for Copenhagen. I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Edward Newton of London, a fellow traveller some years before in Labrador. When we parted in Halifax we had never expected to meet again. But here we were in a remote corner of the world, relating old trials and comparing notes of our Icelandic experiences. It was a quiet Sunday evening and many small boats hovered around the _Ceres_ to bid her farewell as she hoisted her anchor and steamed down the glassy fiord. There were feelings of deep regret in departing from these shores where preconceived ideas had been so pleasantly upset by what we had seen and felt. We were leaving an island, remarkable for its physical characteristics, astonishing for its contrasts, differing greatly from every other spot on the globe. That which had chiefly attached us to Iceland was the display of integrity and moral worth, the high intellectual attainments and the sincere friendliness of its people. ICELAND REVISITED O cordial Iceland! Isle of charm! Where one may roam secure from harm, Where honest, kindly people toil On heaving sea or barren soil; Where welcome hand and open door Greet ev’ry stranger to thy shore; O charming isle! O lava land! Once more I tread thy witching strand. O lava land! O land of light! Where summer brings no shade of night, Thy ice-capped Jökuls shining far Like prismic ray of distant star; Thy trackless wastes of heath and sand, Thy basalt ridges, grim and grand, O land of frost! O land of fire! Thy charm hath filled my soul’s desire. O land of darkness! Land of night! Where winter sheds no ray of light, Where Arctic storms beat on thy shore And snows lie deep on berg and moor, In humble homes thy people rest Content with life, serene and blest. O land of night! O Arctic land! May Storm-king rule with gentle hand. O glacier land! O land of steam! Where chasms yawn and waters gleam, Thy noxious gases whistle shrill From red-hot cliffs in ice-clad hill; Thy horrent lava spreading o’er The fertile, grazing meads of yore. O land of geysers! Land of snow! May Vulcan stay the powers below. O isle of poets! Isle of song! Whose lines thy early deeds prolong, Thy Sagas filled with pagan strife, With blood for blood and life for life, ’Till came the Cross with Christian sway To rule the isle in gentler way. O isle of story! Snorri’s isle! Long may the Muses on thee smile. O land of light! O lava land! Where sturdy Vikings took their stand, To brave the storm-tossed Arctic main, To burst the links of Harald’s chain, To found a nation, strong and free, Whose basal bond is Liberty. O land of heroes! Land of lure! God grant your freedom may endure.