Posthumous Poems/The Death of Sir John Franklin
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
THE DEATH OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN
"The unfriendly elementsForget thee utterly—Where, for a monument upon thy bones,And e'er-remaining lamps, the belching whaleAnd humming water must o'erwhelm thy corpse;Lying with simple shells." —Pericles.
IAs one who having dreamed all night of deathPuts out a hand to feel the sleeping faceNext his, and wonders that the lips have breath—So we, for years not touching on their trace,Marvelled at news of those we counted dead,"For now the strong snows in some iron placeHave covered them; their end shall not be saidTill all the hidden parts of time be plainAnd all the writing of all years be read."So men spake sadly; and their speech was vain,For here the end stands clear, and men at easeMay gather the sharp fruit of that past painOut in some barren creek of the cold seas,Where the slow shapes of the grey water-weedFreeze midway as the languid inlets freeze.
IIThis is the end. There is no nobler word In the large writing and scored marge of time Than such endurance is. Ear hath not heard Nor hath eye seen in the world's bounded clime The patience of their life, as the sharp years And the slow months wrought out their rounded rhyme No man made count of those keen hopes and fears, Which were such labour to them, it may be; That strong sweet will whereto pain ministers And sharpest time doth service patiently.Wrought without praise or failed without a name, Those gulfs and inlets of the channelled sea Hide half the witness that should fill with fame Our common air in England, and the breath That speech of them should kindle to keen flame Flags in the midway record of their death.
IIIIs this the end? is praise so light a thingAs rumour unto rumour tenderethAnd time wears out of care and thanksgiving?Then praise and shame have narrow difference, If either fly with so displumèd wingThat chance and time and this imprisoned senseCan maim or measure the spanned flight of itBy the ruled blanks of their experience,Then only Fortune hath the scroll and writOf all good deeds our memory lives upon;And the slack judgment of her barren witAppoints the award of all things that are done.
IVThe perfect choice and rarest of all goodAbides not in broad air or public sun;Being spoken of, it is not understood;Being shown, it has no beauty to be loved;And the slow pulse of each man’s daily bloodFor joy thereat is not more quickly moved;Itself has knowledge of itself, and isBy its own witness measured and approved;Yea, even well pleased to be otherwise;Nor wear the raiment of a good reputeNor have the record of large memories.Close leaves combine above the covered fruit;Earth, that gives much, holds back her costliest;And in blind night sap comes into the root;Things known are good but hidden things are best.Therefore, albeit we know good deeds of these, Let no man deem he knows their worthiest.He who hath found the measure of the seas,And the wind’s ways hath ruled and limited,And knows the print of their wild passages,The same may speak the praise of these men dead.And having heard him we may surely knowThere is no more to say than he hath saidAnd as his witness is the thing was so.
VWhat praise shall England give these men her friends?For while the bays and the large channels flow,In the broad sea between the iron endsOf the poised world where no safe sail may be,And for white miles the hard ice never blendsWith the chill washing edges of dull sea—And while to praise her green and girdled landShall be the same as to praise Liberty—So long the record of these men shall stand,Because they chose not life but rather death,Each side being weighed with a most equal hand,Because the gift they had of English breathThey did give back to England for her sake,Like those dead seamen of ElizabethAnd those who wrought with Nelson or with Blake To do great England service their lives long—High honour shall they have; their deeds shall makeTheir spoken names sound sweeter than all song.This England hath not made a better man,More steadfast, or more wholly pure of wrongSince the large book of English praise began.For out of his great heart and reverence,And finding love too large for life to span,He gave up life, that she might gather thenceThe increase of the seasons and their praise.Therefore his name shall be her evidence,And wheresoever tongue or thought gainsaysOur land the witness of her ancient worthShe may make answer to the later daysThat she was chosen also for this birth,And take all honour to herself and laud,Because such men are made out of her earth,Yea, wheresoever her report is broad,This new thing also shall be said of herThat bearing it, hate may not stand unawed—That Franklin was her friend and minister;So shall the alien tongue forego its blame,And for his love shall hold her lovelierAnd for his worth more worthy; so his fameShall be the shield and strength of her defence,Since where he was can be net any shame.
VI These things that are and shall abide from henceIt may be that he sees them now, being dead,And it may be that when the smitten senseBegan to pause, and pain was quieted,And labour almost kissed the lips of peace,And sound and sight of usual things had fledFrom the most patient face of his decease,He saw them also then; we cannot say,But surely when the pained breath found easeAnd put the heaviness of life away,Such things as these were not estranged from him.The soul, grown too rebellious to stay,This shameful body where all things are dim,Abode awhile in them and was made gladIn its blind pause upon the middle rimBetween the new life and the life it had,This noble England that must hold him dearAlways, and always in his name keep sadHer histories, and embalm with costly fearAnd with rare hope and with a royal prideHer memories of him that honoured her,Was this not worth the pain wherein he died?And in that lordly praise and large accountWas not his ample spirit satisfied?He who slakes thirst at some uncleaner fountShall thirst again; but he shall win full easeWho finds pure wells far up the painful mount.
VIIFor the laborious time went hard with theseAmong the thousand colours and gaunt shapesOf the strong ice cloven with breach of seas,Where the waste sullen shadow of steep capesNarrows across the cloudy-coloured brine,And by strong jets the angered foam escapes;And a sad touch of sun scores the sea-lineRight at the middle motion of the noonAnd then fades sharply back, and the cliffs shineFierce with keen snows against a kindled moonIn the hard purple of the bitter sky,And thro' some rift as tho' an axe had hewnTwo spars of crag athwart alternately.Flares the loose light of that large Boreal dayDown half the sudden heaven, and with a crySick sleep is shaken from the soul awayAnd men leap up to see and have delightFor the sharp flame and strength of its white rayFrom east to west burning upon the night;And cliff and berg take fire from it, and standLike things distinct in customary sight,And all the northern foam and frost, and allThe wild ice lying large to either hand;And like the broken stones of some strange wallBuilt to be girdle to the utmost earth,Brow-bound with snows and made imperial,Lean crags with coloured ice for crown and girth Stand midway with those iron seas in face Far up the straitened shallows of the firth.
VIII So winter-bound in such disastrous place, Doubtless the time seemed heavier and more hard Than elsewhere in all scape and range of space, Doubtless the backward thought and broad regard Was bitter to their souls, remembering How in soft England the warm lands were starred With gracious flowers in the green front of spring, And all the branches' tender over-growth, Where the quick birds took sudden heart to sing; And how the meadows in their sweet May sloth Grew thick with grass as soft as song or sleep; So, looking back, their hearts grew sere and loath And their chafed pulses felt the blood to creep More vexed and painfully; yea and this too Possessed perchance their eyes with thirst to weep More than green fields or the May weather's blue— Mere recollection of all dearer things.Slight words they used to say, slight work to do,When every day was more than many springs,And the strong April moved at heart, and madeSweet mock at fortune and the seat of kings;The naked sea and the bare lengths of landAnd all the years that fade and grow and fadeWere pleasant years for them to live upon,And time's gold raiment was not rent nor frayed;But now they know not if such things be done,Nor how the old ways and old places fare,Nor whether there be change in the glad sun,Defect and loss in all the fragrant air,New feet are in the waymarks of their feet,The bitter savour of remembered sweetNo doubt did touch their lips in some sharp guise,No doubt the pain of thought and fever-heatPut passion in the patience of their eyes.
IXYet in the edge and keenest nerve of pain,—For such no comfort ever wholly dies,—And as hurt patience healed and grew again, This knowledge came, that neither land nor life Nor all soft things whereof the will is fainNor love of friends nor wedded faith of wife Nor all of these nor any among these Make a man's best, but rather loss and strife, Failure, endurance, and high scorn of ease, Love strong as death and valour strong as love; Therefore among the winter-wasted seas, No flaw being found upon them to reprove,—These whom God's grace, calling them one by one, In unknown ways did patiently remove, To have new heaven and earth, new air and sun,—These chose the best, therefore their name shall be Part of all noble things that shall be done, Part of the royal record of the sea.
1858.