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, brave Englishman? Cried the little Esquimaux. Between the 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 ship to sled, I ween, were something new! All through the long, long polar day, The vessels westward sped; And wherever the sail of Sir John was 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 ships were staid, the yards were manned, And furled the useless sail. The summer's gone, the winter's come, We sail not on 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-- My God! there is no sea! What think you of the whaler now? What of the Esquimaux? A sled were better than a ship, To cruise through ice and snow. Down sank the baleful crimson sun, The northern light came out, And glared upon the ice-bound ships, And shook its spears about. The snow came down, storm breeding storm, And on the decks was 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!