Classic Poem

O the roaring and the thunder!
O the terror and the wonder!
O the surging and the seething of the flood!
O the tumbling and the rushing —
O the grinding and the crushing —
O the plunging and the rearing of the ice!
When the great St. Lawrence River,
With a mighty swell and shiver,
Bursts amain the wintry bonds that hold him fast.

'Twas on an April morning —
And the air was full of warning
Of the havoc and the crash that was to be. —
A deed was done, whose glory
Flames from out the simple story,
Like the living gleam of diamond in the mine.
'Twas where St. Mary's Ferry
In sweet summer makes so merry,
'Twixt St. Helen's fortressed isle and Montreal,
There, on an April morning, —
As if in haughty scorning
Of the tale soft Zephyr told in passing by —
Firm and hard, like road of Roman,
Under team of sturdy yeoman,
Or the guns, the ice lay smooth, and bright, and cold.
And watching its resistance
To the forces in the distance
That nearer and yet nearer ever rolled,

Warning off who tempt the crossing,
All too soon so wildly tossing,
Stood a party of Old England's Twenty-Fourth.
While as yet they gazed in wonder,
Sudden boomed the awful thunder
That proclaimed the mighty conqueror at hand.
O then the fierce uplifting!
The trembling, and the rifting!
The tearing, and the grinding, and the throes!
The chaos and careering,
The toppling and the rearing,
The crashing and the dashing of the floes!

At such an awful minute
A glance, — the horror in it! —
Showed a little maiden midway twixt the shores,
With hands a-clasp and crying.
And, amid the masses, trying, —
Vainly trying — to escape on either hand.
O child so rashly daring!
Who thy dreadful peril sharing
Shall, to save thee, tempt the terrors of the flood
That roaring, leaping, swirling,
And continuously whirling,
Threats to whelm in frightful deeps thy tender form!
The helpless soldiers, standing
On a small precarious landing,
Think of nothing but the child and her despair,
When a voice as from the Highest, —
To the child he being nighest —
Falls " Quick-march! " upon the ear of Sergeant Neill.
O blessed sense of duty!
As on banderole of duty
His unswerving eye he fixes on the child;
And straight o'er floe and fissure,
Fragments yielding to his pressure,
Toppling berg, and giddy block, he takes his way;

Sometimes climbing, sometimes crawling.
Sometimes leaping, sometimes falling,
Till at last he stands where cowers the weeping child.
Then with all a victor's bearing.
As in warlike honours sharing,
With the child all closely clasped upon his breast,
O'er floe and hummock taking
Any step for safety making,
On he goes, till they who watch can see no more.

For both glass and light are failing.
As the ice-pack, slowly sailing,
Bears him onward past the shore of far Longueil.
" Lost! " his comrades cry, and turning.
Eyes cast down, and bosoms burning,
Gain the shelter of their quiet barrack home;
Where, all night, the tortured father
Clasps the agonizing mother.

In the mute embrace of hopelessness and dread.
O the rapid alternations
When the loud reverberations
Of the evening gun boom forth the hour of rest!
The suffering and the sorrow!
The praying for the morrow!
The fears, the hopes, that tear the parents breasts!
And many a word is spoken
At the mess, so sadly broken,
Of the men who mourn their comrade brave and true
And many a tear-drop glistens,
Where a watching mother listens
To the tumult of the ice along the shore.
And ever creeping nearer,
Children hold each other dearer,
In the gaps of slumber broken by its roar.

Twice broke the rosy dawning
Of a sunny April morning,
And Hope had drooped her failing wings, to die;
When o'er the swelling river,
Like an arrow from a quiver,
Came the news of rescue, safety, glad return;
And the mother, as from Heaven,
Clasped her treasure, newly-given;
And the father wrung the hand of Sergeant Neill:
Who shrunk from their caressing,
Nor looked for praise or blessing,
But straight returned to duty and his post.

And this the grateful story,
To others' praise and glory,
That the Sergeant told his comrades round the fire.

" Far down the swelling river,
To the ocean flowing ever,
With its teeming life of porpoise, fish, and seal,
There hardy, brave, and daring,
Dwells the habitant ; nor caring
Save to make his frugal living by his skill.
Nor heeds he of the weather,
For scale, and fur, and feather,
Lay their tribute in his hand the year around.
On the sunny April morning,
That the ice had given warning
Of the havoc and the crash that was to be,
Stood Pierre, Louis, gazing,
Their prayers to Mary raising,
For a season full of bounty from the sea.
And when the light was failing,
And the ice-pack, slowly-sailing,
Crashing, tumbling, roaring, thundering, passed them by,
Their quick eye saw with wonder,
On the masses torn asunder,
An unfortunate who drifted to his doom.

" O then the exclamations!
The rapid preparations!
The launching of canoes upon the wave!
The signalling and shouting! —
Death and disaster flouting —
The anxious haste, the strife, a human life to save
Across the boiling surges,
Each man his light bark urges,
Though death is in the error of a stroke;
And paddling, poising, drifting,
O'er the floes the light shell lifting,
The gallant fellows reach the whirling pack:
And from the frightful danger,
They save the worn-out stranger.
And oh, to see the nursling in his arms!
And oh, the pious caring,
The sweet and tender faring,
From the gentle hands of Marie and Louise!
And the pretty, smiling faces,
As the travellers take their places
To return again to those who weep their loss.

And the Sergeant's story ending,
His head in rev'rence bending,
He cried " God bless for ever all noble souls like these! "
But cheer on cheer resounded.
Till the officers, astounded
At their mess, upon their sword-hilts clapped their hands.
And the plaudits rose still higher,
When they joined with martial fire,
In the cry " God bless the Twenty-Fourth, and its gallant Sergeant Neill! "