John Maynard.
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 th’ 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 southeast!” the captain shouts, Above the smothered roar,— “Head her southeast without delay! Make for the nearest shore!”
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 the 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 will reach the shore.” Through flames and smoke that dauntless heart Responded firmly still, Unawed, though face to face with death, “With God’s good help, I will!”