One of the best stories illustrating this class of dangers is that of the whaleship _Rufus_. A whaling vessel in 1774 found an abandoned ship; and on boarding her, found the crew scattered about in the postures assumed when they first yielded to the fatal sleep. The tale, in verse worth
remembering, but seldom or never seen, was told many years ago by an unknown author. The distinctness and simplicity of the style render the poem worth preserving, aside from the interest of the story.
Sing not, my Muse, of brightening fields Of ether, fair displayed, Of whispering bowers, where Zephyr yields His fragrance to the glade
But haste thee to the frozen throne, The starry blue domain Where Winter, monarch dread and lone, Asserts his iron reign.
Now Europe’s northern cape recedes, And Iceland’s utmost shore; The sailor turns his face and heeds Those viewless forms no more.
For mountains, distant yet, but bright, Edging the arctic tide, ’Neath spiry flames of dancing light, At masthead are descried.
For see! in glittering points, the coast Divides; the mountain chain, On waves afar in silence tossed, Trembles athwart the main.
Anon, the mariner looks forth, And scans with cheerless brow,-- Borne onward by the angry North, An arctic navy now.
“How shall the good ship Rufus speed? How live?” the master cried;-- “God send us help in time of need,"-- “Amen!” the crew replied.
Each ice-built crag and snowy cliff Chases the foaming spray; And, ’mid those moving Alps, the skiff Must find her destined way.
Her destined way?--Her destined fate! Now drops the needful gale; The waves become a glassy plate; The bark forbears to sail.
Prisoned of God; by mountains pent,-- Fuel and food consumed;-- Ask not of me the dire event, Nor why they thus were doomed.
Again, borne forth by waves and wind, Men spread a venturous sail, ’Mid rocks of massy ice to find The scarce less massy whale.
The optic tube now aids the eye, And scans the distant sea: A distant speck they now descry; A speck--what can it be?
“What can it be?” inquire the men-- “An iceberg, or a sail?” As yet the crew inquire in vain, And doubt must yet prevail.
Yes, doubt prevails, and strengthens still, Though fast the object nears. “Sure ’tis no sail which at the will Of winds and billows steers!”