John Maynard by Horatio Alger

JOHN MAYNARD

by: Horatio Alger (1832-1899)

'WAS on Lake Erie's broad expanse

One bright midsummer day,

The gallant steamer Ocean Queen

Swept proudly on her way.

Bright faces clustered on the deck,

Or, leaning o'er the side,

Watched carelessly the feathery foam

That flecked the rippling tide.




Ah, who beneath that cloudless sky,

That smiling bends serene,

Could dream that danger awful, vast,

Impended o'er the scene,--

Could dream that ere an hour had sped

That frame of sturdy oak

Would sink beneath the lake's blue waves,

Blackened with fire and smoke?




A seaman sought the captain's side,

A moment whispered low;

The captain's swarthy face grew pale;

He hurried down below.

Alas, too late! Though quick, and sharp,

And clear his orders came,

No human efforts could avail

To quench the insidious flame.




The bad news quickly reached the deck,

It sped from lip to lip,

And ghastly Faces everywhere

Looked from the doomed ship.

"Is there no hope--no chance of life?"

A hundred lips implore,

"But one," the captain made reply,

"To run the ship on shore."




A sailor, whose heroic soul

That hour should yet reveal,

By name John Maynard, eastern-born,

Stood calmly at the wheel.

"Head her south-east!" the captain shouts,

Above the smothered roar,--

"Head her south-east without delay!

Make for the nearest shore!"




No terror pales the helmsman's cheek,

Or clouds his dauntless eye,

As, in a sailor's measured tone,

His voice responds, "Ay! ay!"

Three hundred souls, the steamer's freight,

Crowd forward wild with fear,

While at the stern the dreaded flames

Above the deck appear.




John Maynard watched the nearing flames,

But still with steady hand

He grasped the wheel, and steadfastly

He steered the ship to land.

"John Maynard, can you still hold out?"

He heard the captain cry;

A voice from out the stifling smoke

Faintly responds, "Ay! ay!"




But half a mile! a hundred hands

Stretch eagerly to shore.

But half a mile! That distance sped

Peril shall all be o'er.

But half a mile! Yet stay, the flames

No longer slowly creep,

But gather round that helmsman bold,

With fierce, impetuous sweep.




"John Maynard!" with an anxious voice

The captain cries once more,

"Stand by the wheel five minutes yet,

And we shall reach the shore."

Through flame and smoke that dauntless heart

Responded firmly still,

Unawed, though face to face with death,--

"With God's good help I will!"




The flames approach with giant strides,

They scorch his hand and brow;

One arm, disabled, seeks his side,

Ah! he is conquered now!

But no, his teeth are firmly set,

He crushes down his pain,

His knee upon the stanchion pressed,

He guides the ship again.




One moment yet! one moment yet!

Brave heart, thy task is o'er,

The pebbles grate beneath the keel.

The steamer touches shore.

Three hundred grateful voice rise

In praise to God that he

Hath saved them from the fearful fire,

And from the engulphing sea.




But where is he, that helmsman bold?

The captain saw him reel,--

His nerveless hands released their task,

He sank beside the wheel.

The wave received his lifeless corpse,

Blackened with smoke and fire.

God rest him! Never hero had

A nobler funeral pyre!

If by Rudyard Kipling

F you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

Is this triumph and disaster clinging onto the world?

It Couldnt be done by Edgar A. Guest

It Couldn't be Done

Somebody said that it couldn’t be done,
But, he with a chuckle replied
That "maybe it couldn’t," but he would be one
Who wouldn’t say so till he’d tried.
So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin
On his face. If he worried he hid it.
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

Somebody scoffed: "Oh, you’ll never do that;
At least no one has done it";
But he took off his coat and he took off his hat,
And the first thing we knew he’d begun it.
With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,
Without any doubting or quiddit,
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,
There are thousands to prophesy failure;
There are thousands to point out to you one by one,
The dangers that wait to assail you.
But just buckle it in with a bit of a grin,
Just take off your coat and go to it;
Just start to sing as you tackle the thing
That "couldn’t be done," and you’ll do it.

By Edgar A. Guest

I do love this poem .....

Then Laugh by Bertha Adams Backus - Page 110

Then Laugh
By Bertha Adams Backus

Build for yourself a strong box,
fashion each part with care;
When it’s strong as your hand can make it,
put all your troubles there;

Hide there all thought of your failures;
and each bitter cup that you quaff;
Lock all your heartaches within it,
Then sit on the lid and laugh.

Tell no one else its contents,
Never its secrets share;
When you’ve dropped in your care and worry
keep them forever there;

Hide them from sight so completely
That the world will never dream half;
Fasten the strongbox securely—
Then sit on the lid and laugh.

From my Armchair - Page 391 - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

From my Armchair

To the children of Cambridge Who presented to me on my Seventy-second Birth-day, February 27, 1879, this Chair, made from the Wood of the Village Blacksmith's Chestnut Tree.

Am I a king, that I should call my own
This splendid ebon throne?
Or by what reason, or what right divine,
Can I proclaim it mine?

Only, perhaps, by right divine of song
It may to me belong;
Only because the spreading chestnut tree
Of old was sung by me.

Well I remember it in all its prime,
When in the summer-time
The affluent foliage of its branches made
A cavern of cool shade.

There, by the blacksmith's forge, beside the street,
Its blossoms white and sweet
Enticed the bees, until it seemed alive,
And murmured like a hive.

And when the winds of autumn, with a shout,
Tossed its great arms about,
The shining chestnuts, bursting from the sheath,
Dropped to the ground beneath.

And now some fragments of its branches bare,
Shaped as a stately chair,
Have by my hearthstone found a home at last,
And whisper of the past.

The Danish king could not in all his pride
Repel the ocean tide,
But, seated in this chair, I can in rhyme
Roll back the tide of Time.

I see again, as one in vision sees,
The blossoms and the bees,
And hear the children's voices shout and call,
And the brown chestnuts fall.

I see the smithy with its fires aglow,
I hear the bellows blow,
And the shrill hammers on the anvil beat
The iron white with heat!

And thus, dear children, have ye made for me
This day a jubilee,
And to my more than three-score years and ten
Brought back my youth again.

The heart hath its own memory, like the mind,
And in it are enshrined
The precious keepsakes, into which is wrought
The giver's loving thought.

Only your love and your remembrance could
Give life to this dead wood,
And make these branches, leafless now so long,
Blossom again in song.

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

In a Rose Garden- Page 27 - John Bennett

In a Rose garden.........

A hundred years from now, dear heart,
We shall not care at all,
It will not matter then a whit,
The honey or the gall.
The summer days that we have known
Will all forgotten be and flown;
The garden will be overgrown
Where now the roses fall.

A hundred years from now, dear heart,
We shall not mind the pain;
The throbbing crimson tide of life
Will not have left a stain.
The song we sing together, dear,
The dream we dream together here,
Will mean no more than means a tear
Amid a summer rain.

A hundred years from now, dear heart,
The grief will all be o'er;
The sea of care will surge in vain
Upon a careless shore.
These glasses we turn down today
Here at the parting of the way-
We shall be wineless then as they,
And shall not mind it more.

A hundred years from now, dear heart,
We'll neither know nor care
What came of all life's bitterness,
Or followed love's despair.
Then fill the glasses up again,
And kiss me through the rose-leaf rain;
We'll build one castle more in Spain,
And dream one more dream there.

- John Bennet

Amazing what a week in bed can do??

I have had a stinking cold all week , unable to lift my head from the pillow. Yet strangely unable to sleep. In a virus addled state I searched through my bookcase looking for some inspiration. I came across a book of poetry with the pages loose, nice paper , flocked at the edge and mottled in places with brown age spots. I have many poetry books , you can never have enough so I took this and another 18th century poetry book down to my bed to read.

Nice wide pages , it always annoys me when beautiful poetry has no accompanying illustrations , and as this book was really in no fit state to keep I decided to draw on some of the loose pages. Not randomly but inspired specifically by the words. And then I decided I would make this my project of the year..... every day I would pick a poem and illustrate it, without losing the words. The book is the "Best Loved Poems of the American People" I picked it up in a second hand book shop many years ago. Many lovely poems and so much inspiration.

Each week I will pick out some poems , illustrate them and post them on here, with full words and details. each illustration will be found in my Etsy shop - ClockTowerArtwork.etsy.com.

I have been working away at some ...... will upload through out the week.