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HEROES AMONG MEN.
Sir John Franklin.
1786–1847.
Turn in continual service to the Pole,
He must have marvelled with what strange control
That atom swayed the constellation near,
Some influence sure of that mysterious sphere
Touched then the mighty magnet of his soul,
To hold high purpose to its mighty goal,
And bid him for the cruel north-land steer.
Are moved by wings we wot not of at all—
From that far world a message at his birth
Grew as he grew, and framed his spirit's call,
And this poor town in humbleness has given
Proof that the patriot's heart is born in Heaven!
To the Memory of Lady Jane Franklin.
Well has the Master's cunning hand exprest
The honours on thine honourable breast,
The speaking eye, the calm command of brow—
Ah! if those eyes could weep, they would weep now!
To-day we carry to a well-earned rest
One who hath need not any more of quest—
Whose love was champion of her marriage vow.
The ancient bergs that build the Northern sea;
And when to summer waters melting slip
Those giant crystals that enshrine thy ship,
The men that sail where thou and thine were found,
Shall tell the love no Arctic winter bound.
On the morning of Lady Franklin's funeral, I was shown in Noble's studio the bust of Sir John Franklin, now in Westminster Abbey, which he had just completed.
Commander Wyatt Rawson.
Oh! wheresoever Christians seek their Lord
And know Him in a life not idly poured,
But, at the desperate call that holds in fee
The bravest answer, poured unsparingly—
The cost unrecked, the hazard hardly scored,—
Obedience only waiting duty's word
To dare death's worst—who seek will meet with thee.
Fresh in the north's intolerable night,
Lending thy comrades thine own body's fire,
Or, in close commune with Egyptian stars,
The guide of moonless squadrons to the fight,
Thyself to fall—thy fame to mount up higher.
Commander Wyatt Rawson was wounded in the Ashantee War at Amoaful. With Captain Nares' expedition to the Arctic, he distinguished himself by giving up his own body's warmth, night after night, in a perilous sledge journey, to keep his frost-bitten comrades alive. He was shot down in the van of the English troops, as he led them through the night, guiding them by the stars, to the attack of Tel-el-Kebir.
The despatch of Sir Garnet Wolseley, dated Cairo, September 24, 1882, runs as follows:—
“Of my Aides-de-Camp I have to regret the loss of Lieutenant Rawson, of the Royal Navy, who was mortally wounded at Tel-el-Kebir. During the many journeys I made by night, I found him of great use in directing our line of march correctly, through his knowledge of the stars. On the 13th instant, I consequently selected him to conduct the Highland Brigade during the night, to the portion of the enemy's works where I explained to him I wished them to storm. This duty he performed with the utmost coolness and success, but lost his life in its execution. No man more gallant fell on that occasion.”
General Gordon.
Simple in heart, of purpose crystal clear,
Ah! what availed that soul-perplexing year
Of lonely patience, expectation mute,
Those winks of watch dog slumber to recruit
Waste of long nights, and bid thee persevere
To build up ramparts in dark hearts of fear,
And pace the city wall with guardian foot!
Of that beleaguered plain beyond the Nile,
Whose dust-whirls never broke to flash of sword,
Volley of English cannon, and the ring
Of cheers from hearts that sought thee—this, thine Isle,
Has learned how live and die, the warriors of the Lord.
Father Damien.
A leper's grave upon a leprous strand
Where hope is dead, and hand must shrink from hand
Where cataracts wail towards a moaning deep,
And frowning purple cliffs in mercy keep
All wholesome life at distance, hath God planned
For him who led his saintly hero band,
And died a shepherd of Christ's exiled sheep.
Stars burn for golden letters, and the sea
Shall roll perpetual anthem round his rest;
For Damien made the charnel-house life's home,
Matched love with death: and Damien's name shall be
A glorious benediction world-possest.
At Livingstone's Funeral.
They bore the heart that ever yearned for home,
But ever felt its duty was to roam
Far wildernesses, solitary, brave,
That so who knew not home, sweet home might have—
Fierce nations to his funeral seemed to come,
To weep with those who underneath the dome
Wept for the friend they carried to his grave.
No wreaths of laurel, cypress or of bay,
Only the plumey feathers of the palm,
And as our voices rose in prayer and psalm
We saw one standing victor in the Morn,
And felt o'er darkened Africa the Day.
The pathetic grief upon the faces of the two devoted African servants of Livingstone, Chumah and Susi, who at great personal risk had borne the body of their master from Ilala to the coast, as they stood by the side of the grave in Westminster Abbey, can never be forgotten by those who witnessed it.
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