  Kane: died February 16, 1857. A 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 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 beleaguered and by winter chased, Seeking the brother lost amid that frozen waste.Not many months ago we greeted him, 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; Hot Southern lips, with eloquence aflame, Sounded his triumph; Texas, wild and grim, 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, Prisoned 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 Glimmered the fading embers of a mind! _ That awful hour, when through the prostrate band 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 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, 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 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, 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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