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!