University of Virginia Library

A certain restless runner in life's race
Having o'errun the world by many ways,
And seen in many lands what men most praise,
Tombs, temples, palaces, schools, senates, marts;
Yet scorning all these in his heart of hearts,
Set out with an unsatiated soul
To seek, thro' lands unknown, the northern pole.

But, tho', in truth, well knowing what he would,
Because he, nathless, knew not how he should,
Whose instinct, tho' it urged, yet guided not,
His wishful wanderings to the wisht-for spot,
He lost, at last, his bearings in the snow.
Nought, save the pilot stars, that only show
Their lamps when cloudless is the midnight sky,
Had he to lead him. Tho' his heart was high,
His lore was little. Trackless stretch'd the way
Without a land-mark. More and more astray
As he strode onward thro' the drift and sleet,
Discouragement came on him. Lack of heat
Benumb'd his limbs: and, hoping heat to find
There where it seems forbidden, in the blind
Bald snow he hollow'd out a lonesome lair.
But 'neath that hueless dust of the dark air
He found, as he upturn'd it to creep under,
A little casket. With unhopeful wonder
The lid he languidly uplifts; and lo!
Within the casket, which, with effort slow,
His shivering fingers insecurely seize,
Poised on a pivot, and but ill at ease,
A needle that doth desperately swing
This way, and that way, like a living thing
Tether'd and struggling to escape pursuit.
The man, with puzzled scrutiny minute,
Perused, and tried, but fail'd, to understand
This tiny trembler, fluttering in his hand.
Whence by degrees he heard, or seem'd to hear,
A peevish, fretful voice, that in his ear
Wail'd with a sharp and petulant despair,
“For the Almighty Magnet's sake, forbear
To turn me from my course!” “Thy course?” he cried,
“What is thy course?” The quivering steel replied
(Striving its agitation to control)
“Dost thou not see I seek the northern pole?”

“What!” mock'd the man, amazed at this strange talk,
“Thou seek'st the northern pole? who canst not walk!
Thither I, too, would go—if I knew how.
Strong are my legs, and stout my heart, I trow;
And ever to the goal I would attain
Do I strive onward. Yet the strife seems vain.”
“Ay so” the needle answer'd, “vain for thee!
Lost in the waste thy wandering steps must be,
Nor ever wilt thou reach that wondrous spot
Whither thou journeyest. For thou knowest not.
I know, but cannot. Place me on thy palm.
So . . . but disturb me not . . . thou movest . . . be calm!
Where am I? . . . ah, thou hast confused me! . . . stay,
I have it! . . . lost again! . . . steady, I say,
Steady! . . . Right now! I was too much to the east,
Am now a hair's breadth too much west. The least
Disturbance so unsettles my vext soul.
See now! . . . I point . . . true . . . to the northern pole!”
Then, in what seem'd an ecstasy of pride
(Rescued from trouble upon either side!)
The needle rested, finely vibrating.
And, if it were an inorganic thing,
'Twas surely animated by some spell
Spirit, or goblin, potent to compel
Mere metal, with no mere mechanic thrill,
To mimic the intelligence and will
Which life displays.

The unhoped-for revelation
Wrought in the man's soul, too, fresh animation.
“Behold” he cried triumphantly, “at last
All that I wanted!” and his heart beat fast.
“I had the will. I deem'd I had the power.
The knowledge fail'd me, till this fortunate hour
Which brings all three together. Needle, hail!
The goal is ours. For how should these three fail,
Will, Knowledge, Power?” And “Oh,” the needle cried,
“So be it! Forwards! Quick! the world is wide:
Thy time is short: and we have far to go.
To the north! to the north!” Over the vague vast snow
The man resumed his march. Huge bergs of ice
He climb'd, and many a monstrous precipice.
And, ever, when the black unfrozen sea
Put out an arm to stop him, round went he
For leagues and leagues along the frozen coast.
The needle, conscious of the true course lost,
Or left, then cried, “No! no! not there! not there!
Follow me straight, and trust me everywhere.
I never err.” “I know it,” the man replied,
“And know too well, inexorable guide,
What thy truth costs me. For all lower lives
To lesser goals creation's care contrives
Simple and instantaneous aids: but man,
That lacks all these, must fashion, as he can,
By force of will inferior means, that try
His utmost faculties. A man am I,
And not a fish. I cannot swim the ocean.
Have patience.” With abrupt reproachful motion
The needle turning to him, answer'd cold,
“Why did'st thou undertake, then, overbold,
A task beyond thy powers? The clumsy whale,
The stupid sturgeon, even the molluse frail,
Know how to swim; and thou, a man, dost sigh
‘I cannot.’” He made answer bitterly,
“Ungrateful! and my will, then? is that naught?”
As he sped onwards; goaded by the thought
Of that fine fretful tyranny, which went
From ice-bound continent to continent
Still with him ever, and still ever crying,
“March!” Did he linger by the wayside, trying
To filch a moment's respite from fierce toil,
The voice cried, “March!” Or 'neath the frozen soil
Sought he a mouthful of scant nurture, found
In juicy roots safe-hidden underground
From the omnivorous winter, like a bone
That's buried by a dog? with chiding tone
“March! march!” the voice cried ever. “March! the way
Is long.”

Too long for life it proved. One day,
At nightfall, in the winding death-shroud wide
Of the wan snow he sunk; and sinking, sigh'd
Hope's last surrender of life's citadel,
“I can no more!” “Thou can'st no more? Farewell,
Presumptuous impostor!” pitiless
The importunate voice cried; poisoning with this
Supreme reproach its victim's dying hour.
“Weak traitor, self-betray'd! where is thy power?
Where is thy will? why didst thou lure me, why,
With false hope troubling the tranquillity
Of my long resignation? O despair,
The goal so nearly won, and thou liest there,
And more than ever is it lost to me!
For who, where thou hast fail'd, will, after thee,
Be mad enough from this abandon'd plain
To pick me up, and bear me on again?”