In vain, in vain beneath his feet we flung
The reddening roses! All in vain we pour'd
The golden wine, and round the shining board
Sent the toast circling, till the rafters rung
With the thrice-tripled honors of the feast!
Scarce the buds wilted and the voices ceased
Ere the pure light that sparkled in his eyes,
Bright as auroral fires in Southern skies,
Faded and faded! And the brave young heart
That the relentless Arctic winds had robb'd
Of all its vital heat, in that long quest
For the lost captain, now within his breast
More and more faintly throbb'd.
His was the victory; but as his grasp
Closed on the laurel crown with eager clasp,
Death launch'd a whistling dart;
And ere the thunders of applause were done
His bright eyes closed forever on the sun!
Too late, too late the splendid prize he won
In the Olympic race of Science and of Art!
Like to some shatter'd berg that, pale and lone,
Drifts from the white North to a tropic zone,
And in the burning day
Wastes peak by peak away,
Till on some rosy even
It dies with sunlight blessing it; so he
Tranquilly floated to a Southern sea,
And melted into heaven.
He needs no tears, who lived a noble life;
We will not weep for him who died so well,
But we will gather round the hearth, and tell
The story of his strife;
Such homage suits him well,
Better than funeral pomp or passing bell.
What tale of peril and self-sacrifice!
Prison'd amid the fastnesses of ice,
With hunger howling o'er the wastes of snow!
Night lengthening into months, the ravenous floe
Crunching the massive ships, as the white bear
Crunches his prey. The insufficient share
Of loathsome food,
The lethargy of famine, the despair
Urging to labor, nervelessly pursued,
Toil done with skinny arms, and faces hued
Like pallid masks, while dolefully behind
Glimmer'd the fading embers of a mind!
That awful hour, when through the prostrate band
Delirium stalk'd, laying his burning hand
Upon the ghastly foreheads of the crew.
The whispers of rebellion, faint and few
At first, but deepening ever till they grew
Into black thoughts of murder; such the throng
Of horrors bound the hero. High the song
Should be that hymns the noble part he play'd!
Sinking himself, yet ministering aid
To all around him. By a mighty will
Living defiant of the wants that kill,
Because his death would seal his comrades' fate;
Cheering with ceaseless and inventive skill
Those Polar waters, dark and desolate.
Equal to every trial, every fate,
He stands, until Spring, tardy with relief,
Unlocks the icy gate,
And the pale prisoners thread the world once more,
To the steep cliffs of Greenland's pastoral shore
Bearing their dying chief.
Time was when he should gain his spurs of gold
From royal hands, who woo'd the knightly state;
The knell of old formalities is toll'd,
And the world's knights are now self-consecrate.
No grander episode doth chivalry hold
In all its annals, back to Charlemagne,
Than that lone vigil of unceasing pain,
Faithfully kept through hunger and through cold,
By the good Christian knight, Elisha Kane!
Fitz-James O'Brien.
On September 12, 1857, the Central America was lost at sea in a great storm off Cape Hatteras. Captain William Lewis Herndon, of the navy, was in command. His tranquil courage preserved discipline up to the last, and until his passengers, officers, and crew were all in the boats. Seeing that the last boat was already overloaded, Captain Herndon refused to add to its danger, and, ordering it off, went down with his ship.
HERNDON
[September 12, 1857]
Ay, shout and rave, thou cruel sea,
In triumph o'er that fated deck,
Grown holy by another grave—
Thou hast the captain of the wreck.
No prayer was said, no lesson read,
O'er him; the soldier of the sea:
And yet for him, through all the land,
A thousand thoughts to-night shall be.
And many an eye shall dim with tears,
And many a cheek be flushed with pride;
And men shall say, There died a man,
And boys shall learn how well he died.