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

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