Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Sir John Franklin

Sir John Franklin.

The Polar clouds uplift—a moment and no more,And through the snowy drift we see them on the shore,A band of gallant hearts, well-ordered, calm, and brave,Braced for their closing parts,—their long march to the grave.

Through the snow's dazzling blink, into the dark they've gone:—No pause: the weaker sink, the strong can but strive on,Till all the dreary day is dotted with their dead,And the shy foxes play about each sleeping head.

Unharmed the wild deer run, to graze along the strand,Nor dread the loaded gun beside each sleeping hand,The remnant that survive onward like drunkards reel,Scarce wotting if alive, but for the pangs they feel.

The river of their hope at length is drawing nigh—Their snow-blind way they grope, and reach its banks to die!Thank God, brave Franklin's place was empty in that band!He closed his well-run race not on the iron strand.

Not under snow-clouds white, by cutting frost-winds driven,Did his true spirit fight its shuddering way to heaven;But warm, aboard his ship, with comfort at his side,And hope upon his lip, the gallant Franklin died.

His heart he'er ached to see his much-loved sailors ta'en;His sailors' pangs were free from their loved captain's pain.But though in death apart, they are together now—Calm each enduring heart,—bright each devoted brow!