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Died February 16, 1857
ALOFT upon an old basaltic crag, | |
| Which, scalped 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 | 5 |
| 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, | 10 |
| Breasted the gathering snows, | |
| Clung to the drifting floes, | |
| By want beleaguered, and by winter chased, | |
| Seeking the brother lost amid that frozen waste. | |
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| Not many months ago we greeted him, | 15 |
| Crowned 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. | 20 |
| Hot Southern lips, with eloquence aflame, | |
| Sounded in triumph. Texas, wild and grim, | |
| Proffered its horny hand. The large-lunged West, | |
| From out his giant breast, | |
| Yelled its frank welcome. And from main to main | 25 |
| Jubilant to the sky, | |
| Thundered the mighty cry, | |
| HONOR TO KANE! | |
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| In vain,—in vain beneath his feet we flung | |
| The reddening roses! All in vain we poured | 30 |
| 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 voice ceased | |
| Ere the pure light that sparkled in his eyes, | 35 |
| Bright as auroral fires in Southern skies, | |
| Faded and faded! And the brave young heart | |
| That the relentless Arctic winds had robbed | |
| Of all its vital heat, in that long quest | |
| For the lost captain, now within his breast | 40 |
| More and more faintly throbbed. | |
| His was the victory; but as his grasp | |
| Closed on the laurel crown with eager clasp, | |
| Death launched a whistling dart; | |
| And ere the thunders of applause were done | 45 |
| 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 shattered berg that, pale and lone, | |
| Drifts from the white North to a Tropic zone, | 50 |
| 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, | 55 |
| 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; | 60 |
| Such homage suits him well, | |
| Better than funeral pomp or passing bell! | |
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| What tale of peril and self-sacrifice! | |
| Prisoned amid the fastnesses of ice, | |
| With hunger howling o’er the wastes of snow! | 65 |
| Night length’ning 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 | 70 |
| Urging to labor, nervelessly pursued; | |
| Toil done with skinny arms, and faces hued | |
| Like pallid masks, while dolefully behind | |
| Glimmered the fading embers of a mind! | |
| That awful hour, when through the prostrate band | 75 |
| Delirium stalked, 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 | 80 |
| Of horrors bound the hero. High the song | |
| Should be that hymns the noble part he played! | |
| Sinking himself, yet ministering aid | |
| To all around him. By a mighty will | |
| Living defiant of the wants that kill, | 85 |
| 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, | 90 |
| 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! | |
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| Time was when he should gain his spurs of gold! | 95 |
| From royal hands, who wooed the knightly state; | |
| The knell of old formalities is tolled, | |
| And the world’s knights are now self-consecrate. | |
| No grander episode doth chivalry hold | |
| In all its annals, back to Charlemagne, | 100 |
| Than that lone vigil of unceasing pain, | |
| Faithfully kept through hunger and through cold, | |
| By the good Christian knight, Elisha Kane! | |
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