Successful Recitations Part 15

Muttered the boatman grey, And drew his rough hand o'er his eyes, And stared across the bay; "Just five-and-forty year," and not Another word did say.

"But Dolly?" ask the children all, As they about him stand.

"Poor Doll! she floated back next tide With sea-weed in her hand.

She's buried o'er that hill you see, In a churchyard on land.

"But where d.i.c.k lies, G.o.d knows! He'll find Our d.i.c.k at Judgment-day."

The boatman fell to mending nets, The boys ran off to play; And the sun shone and the waves danced In quiet Swanage Bay.

BALLAD OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN.

BY GEORGE HENRY BOKER.

"O, whither sail you, SIR JOHN FRANKLIN?"

Cried a whaler in Baffin's Bay.

"To know if between the land and the pole I may find a broad sea-way."

"I charge you back, SIR JOHN FRANKLIN, As you would live and thrive; For between the land and the frozen pole No man may sail alive."

But lightly laughed the stout Sir John, And spoke unto his men: "Half England is wrong, if he is right; Bear off to westward then."

"O, whither sail you, SIR JOHN FRANKLIN?"

Cried the little Esquimaux.

"Between your land and the polar star My goodly vessels go."

"Come down, if you would journey there,"

The little Indian said; "And change your cloth for fur clothing, Your vessel for a sled."

But lightly laughed the stout Sir John, And the crew laughed with him, too:-- "A sailor to change from s.h.i.+p to sled, I ween were something new!"

All through the long, long polar day, The vessels westward sped; And wherever the sails of Sir John were blown, The ice gave way and fled:

Gave way with many a hollow groan, And with many a surly roar; But it murmured and threatened on every side, And closed where he sailed before.

"Ho! see ye not, my merry men, The broad and open sea?

Bethink ye what the whaler said, Think of the little Indian's sled!"

The crew laughed out in glee.

"Sir John, Sir John, 'tis bitter cold, The scud drives on the breeze, The ice comes looming from the north, The very sunbeams freeze."

"Bright summer goes, dark winter comes-- We cannot rule the year; But long ere summer's sun goes down, On yonder sea we'll steer."

The dripping icebergs dipped and rose, And floundered down the gale; The s.h.i.+ps were stayed, the yards were manned, And furled the useless sail

"The summer's gone, the winter's come, We sail not yonder sea: Why sail we not, SIR JOHN FRANKLIN?"

A silent man was he.

"The summer goes, the winter comes-- We cannot rule the year."

"I ween we cannot rule the ways, Sir John, wherein we'd steer!"

The cruel ice came floating on, And closed beneath the lee, Till the thickening waters dashed no more; 'Twas ice around, behind, before-- Oh G.o.d! there is no sea!

What think you of the whaler now?

What of the Esquimaux?

A sled were better than a s.h.i.+p, To cruise through ice and snow.

Down sank the baleful crimson sun, The northern light came out, And glared upon the ice-bound s.h.i.+ps, And shook its spears about.

The snow came down, storm breeding storm, And on the decks were laid: Till the weary sailor, sick at heart, Sank down beside his spade.

"Sir John, the night is black and long, The hissing wind is bleak, The hard green ice is strong as death-- I prithee, Captain, speak!"

"The night is neither bright nor short, The singing breeze is cold; The ice is not so strong as hope-- The heart of man is bold!"

"What hope can scale this icy wall, High o'er the main flag-staff?

Above the ridges the wolf and bear Look down with a patient settled stare, Look down on us and laugh."

"The summer, went, the winter came-- We could not rule the year; But summer will melt the ice again, And open a path to the sunny main, Whereon our s.h.i.+ps shall steer."

The winter went, the summer went, The winter came around: But the hard green ice was strong as death, And the voice of hope sank to a breath, Yet caught at every sound.

"Hark! heard ye not the noise of guns?

And there, and there again?"

"'Tis some uneasy iceberg's roar, As he turns in the frozen main."

"Hurrah! hurrah! the Esquimaux Across the ice-fields steal: G.o.d give them grace for their charity!"

"Ye pray for the silly seal."

"Sir John, where are the English fields, And where are the English trees, And where are the little English flowers That open in the breeze?"

"Be still, be still, my brave sailors!

You shall see the fields again, And smell the scent of the opening flowers, The gra.s.s, and the waving grain."

"Oh! when shall I see my orphan child?

My Mary waits for me."

"Oh! when shall I see my old mother, And pray at her trembling knee?"

"Be still, be still, my brave sailors!

Think not such thoughts again."

But a tear froze slowly on his cheek; He thought of Lady Jane.

Ah! bitter, bitter grows the cold, The ice grows more and more; More settled stare the wolf and bear, More patient than before.

"Oh! think you, good Sir John Franklin, We'll ever see the land?

'Twas cruel to send us here to starve, Without a helping hand.