I never have got the bearings quite,
Though I've followed the course for many a year,
If he was crazy, clean outright,
Or only what you might say was "queer."
He was just a simple sailor man.
I mind it as well as yisterday,
When we messed aboard of the old Cyane.
Lord! how the time does slip away!
That was five and thirty year ago,
And I never expect such times again,
For sailors wasn't afraid to stow
Themselves on a Yankee vessel then.
He was only a sort of bosun's mate,
But every inch of him taut and trim;
Stars and anchors and togs of state
Tailors don't build for the like of him.
He flew a no-account sort of name,
A reg'lar fo'castle "Jim" or "Jack,"
With a plain "McGinnis" abaft the same,
Giner'ly reefed to simple "Mack."
Mack, we allowed, was sorter queer,—
Ballast or compass wasn't right.
Till he licked four Juicers one day, a fear
Prevailed that he hadn't larned to fight.
But I reckon the Captain knowed his man,
When he put the flag in his hand the day
That we went ashore from the old Cyane,
On a madman's cruise for Darien Bay.
Forty days in the wilderness
We toiled and suffered and starved with Strain,
Losing the number of many a mess
In the Devil's swamps of the Spanish Main.
All of us starved, and many died.
One laid down, in his dull despair;
His stronger messmate went to his side—
We left them both in the jungle there.
It was hard to part with shipmates so;
But standing by would have done no good.
We heard them moaning all day, so slow
We dragged along through the weary wood.
McGinnis, he suffered the worst of all;
Not that he ever piped his eye
Or wouldn't have answered to the call
If they'd sounded it for "All hands to die."
I guess 'twould have sounded for him before,
But the grit inside of him kept him strong,
Till we met relief on the river shore;
And we all broke down when it came along.
All but McGinnis. Gaunt and tall,
Touching his hat, and standing square:
"Captain, the Flag."—And that was all;
He just keeled over and foundered there.
"The Flag?" We thought he had lost his head—
It mightn't be much to lose at best—
Till we came, by and by, to dig his bed,
And we found it folded around his breast.
He laid so calm and smiling there,
With the flag wrapped tight about his heart;
Maybe he saw his course all fair,
Only—we couldn't read the chart.
James Jeffrey Roche.
On February 16, 1857, Elisha Kent Kane, explorer of the Arctic, died at Havana, Cuba, whither he had gone in the hope of regaining a health shattered by his sufferings in the north.
KANE
Aloft upon an old basaltic crag,
Which, scalp'd by keen winds that defend the Pole,
Gazes with dead face on the seas that roll
Around the secret of the mystic zone,
A mighty nation's star-bespangled flag
Flutters alone,
And underneath, upon the lifeless front
Of that drear cliff, a simple name is traced;
Fit type of him who, famishing and gaunt,
But with a rocky purpose in his soul,
Breasted the gathering snows,
Clung to the drifting floes,
By want beleaguer'd, and by winter chased,
Seeking the brother lost amid that frozen waste.
Not many months ago we greeted him,
Crown'd with the icy honors of the North,
Across the land his hard-won fame went forth,
And Maine's deep woods were shaken limb by limb;
His own mild Keystone State, sedate and prim,
Burst from decorous quiet as he came;
Hot Southern lips with eloquence aflame
Sounded his triumph. Texas, wild and grim,
Proffer'd its horny hand. The large-lung'd West,
From out its giant breast,
Yell'd its frank welcome. And from main to main,
Jubilant to the sky,
Thunder'd the mighty cry,
Honor to Kane!