JOHN MAYNARD.
'Twas on Lake Erie's broad expanse
One bright midsummer day,
The gallant steamer Ocean Queen
Swept proudly on her way.
Bright faces clustered on the deck,
Or, leaning o'er the side,
Watched carelessly the feathery foam
That flecked the rippling tide.
Ah, who beneath that cloudless sky,
That smiling bends serene,
Could dream that danger awful, vast,
Impended o'er the scene,—
Could dream that ere an hour had sped
That frame of sturdy oak
Would sink beneath the lake's blue waves,
Blackened with fire and smoke?
A seaman sought the captain's side,
A moment whispered low;
The captain's swarthy face grew pale;
He hurried down below.
Alas, too late! Though quick, and sharp,
And clear his orders came,
No human efforts could avail
To quench the insidious flame.
The bad news quickly reached the deck,
It sped from lip to lip,
And ghastly Faces everywhere
Looked from the doomed ship.
"Is there no hope—no chance of life?"
A hundred lips implore,
"But one," the captain made reply,
"To run the ship on shore."
A sailor, whose heroic soul
That hour should yet reveal,
By name John Maynard, eastern-born,
Stood calmly at the wheel.
"Head her south-east!" the captain shouts,
Above the smothered roar,—
"Head her south-east without delay!
Make for the nearest shore!"
No terror pales the helmsman's cheek,
Or clouds his dauntless eye,
As, in a sailor's measured tone,
His voice responds, "Ay! ay!"
Three hundred souls, the steamer's freight,
Crowd forward wild with fear,
While at the stern the dreaded flames
Above the deck appear.
John Maynard watched the nearing flames,
But still with steady hand
He grasped the wheel, and steadfastly
He steered the ship to land.
"John Maynard, can you still hold out?"
He heard the captain cry;
A voice from out the stifling smoke
Faintly responds, "Ay! ay!"
But half a mile! a hundred hands
Stretch eagerly to shore.
But half a mile! That distance sped
Peril shall all be o'er.
But half a mile! Yet stay, the flames
No longer slowly creep,
But gather round that helmsman bold,
With fierce, impetuous sweep.
"John Maynard!" with an anxious voice
The captain cries once more,
"Stand by the wheel five minutes yet,
And we shall reach the shore."
Through flame and smoke that dauntless heart
Responded firmly still,
Unawed, though face to face with death,—
"With God's good help I will!"
The flames approach with giant strides,
They scorch his hand and brow;
One arm, disabled, seeks his side,
Ah! he is conquered now!
But no, his teeth are firmly set,
He crushes down his pain,
His knee upon the stanchion pressed,
He guides the ship again.
One moment yet! one moment yet!
Brave heart, thy task is o'er,
The pebbles grate beneath the keel.
The steamer touches shore.
Three hundred grateful voice rise
In praise to God that he
Hath saved them from the fearful fire,
And from the engulphing sea.
But where is he, that helmsman bold?
The captain saw him reel,—
His nerveless hands released their task,
He sank beside the wheel.
The wave received his lifeless corpse,
Blackened with smoke and fire.
God rest him! Never hero had
A nobler funeral pyre!
FRIAR ANSELMO.
Friar Anselmo (God's grace may he win!)
Committed one sad day a deadly sin;
Which being done he drew back, self-abhorred,
From the rebuking presence of the Lord,
And, kneeling down, besought, with bitter cry,
Since life was worthless grown, that he might die.
All night he knelt, and, when the morning broke,
In patience still he waits death's fatal stroke.
When all at once a cry of sharp distress
Aroused Anselmo from his wretchedness;
And, looking from the convent window high,
He saw a wounded traveller gasping lie
Just underneath, who, bruised and stricken sore,
Had crawled for aid unto the convent door.
The friar's heart with deep compassion stirred,
When the poor wretch's groans for help were heard
With gentle hands, and touched with love divine,
He bathed his wounds, and poured in oil and wine.
With tender foresight cared for all his needs,—
A blessed ministry of noble deeds.
In such devotion passed seven days. At length
The poor wayfarer gained his wonted strength.
With grateful thanks he left the convent walls,
And once again on death Anselmo calls.
When, lo! his cell was filled with sudden light,
And on the wall he saw an angel write,
(An angel in whose likeness he could trace,
More noble grown, the traveller's form and face),
"Courage, Anselmo, though thy sin be great,
God grants thee life that thou may'st expiate.
"Thy guilty stains shall be washed white again,
By noble service done thy fellow-men.
"His soul draws nearest unto God above,
Who to his brother ministers in love."
Meekly Anselmo rose, and, after prayer,
His soul was lightened of its past despair.
Henceforth he strove, obeying God's high will,
His heaven-appointed mission to fulfil.
And many a soul, oppressed with pain and grief,
Owed to the friar solace and relief.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
THE CHURCH AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON.
One autumn day, when hedges yet were green,
And thick-branched trees diffused a leafy gloom,
Hard by where Avon rolls its silvery tide,
I stood in silent thought by Shakspeare's tomb.
O happy church, beneath whose marble floor
His ashes lie who so enriched mankind;
The many-sided Shakespeare, rare of soul,
And dowered with an all-embracing mind.
Through the stained windows rays of sunshine fall
In softened glory on the chancel floor;
While I, a pilgrim from across the sea,
stand with bare head in reverential awe.
Churches there are within whose gloomy vaults
Repose the bones of those that once were kings;
Their power has passed, and what remains but clay?
While in his grave our Shakspeare lives and sings.
Kings were his puppets, kingdoms but his stage,—
Faint shadows they without his plastic art,—
He waves his wand, and lo! they live again,
And in his world perform their mimic part.
Born in the purple, his imperial soul
Sits crowned and sceptred in the realms of mind.
Kingdoms may fall, and crumble to decay,
Time but confirms his empire o'er mankind.