Library of the World's Best Literature, Ancient and Modern, volume 05 — Selected poems
Copyrighted by G. P.
Putnam's Sons, New York.
GEORGE H.
BOKER
(1823-1890) Mr. Boker was a man of leisure by inheritance, and a scholar and author by training and choice.
His work is usually deliberate, careful, and polished: the work of a man of solid culture, of much experience and knowledge of the world; of a man of dignity and social position, not a Bohemian.
It is thoughtfully planned and carefully executed, but not written through inspiration or prompted by passion.
Yet it does not lack vigor, nor are his puppets merely automata.
His plays have life and force; and they are moreover good acting dramas.
'Francesca da Rimini' especially, with Lawrence Barrett in the role of Lanciotto, was decidedly successful on the stage.
In keeping with the character of his work, the scenes of his plays are all laid in foreign countries and in other times: Portugal, England, Spain, and Italy are the fields in which his characters play their parts.
His personages have an individuality of their own and are consistently drawn; the action is lively, the humor is natural and a needful foil to the tragedy.
[Illustration: George H. Boker.
] Mr. Boker was fond of the sonnet, as poets are apt to be who have once yielded to its attraction, and he used it with much effect.
But chiefly his poems of the Civil War will make his name remembered.
His lyre responded sympathetically to the heroic deeds which characterized that conflict--not always with the smoothness and polish of his more studied work, but worthily, and in the spirit of the time.
He was born in Philadelphia, October 6th, 1823, and died there January 2d, 1890. He was graduated from Princeton in 1842, and after studying law and traveling for a number of years in Europe, settled down in his native city, where most of his life was spent.
He was Minister to Turkey from 1871 to 1875, and Minister to Russia from 1875 to 1879. His first volume, 'The Lesson of Life and other Poems,' was published in 1847, and was followed by various plays.
--'Calaynos,' 'Anne Boleyn,' 'The Betrothal,' 'Leonor de Guzman,' 'Francesca da Rimini,' etc. , which, with some shorter pieces, were collected in 'Plays and Poems,' published in 1856. His 'Poems of the War' appeared in 1864, and still later a number of other volumes: 'Street Lyrics,' 'Our Heroic Themes' (1865), 'Königsmark' (1869), 'The Book of the Dead' (1882), a very close imitation of 'In Memoriam' in both matter and form, and 'Sonnets' (1886).
THE BLACK REGIMENT
From 'Plays and Poems' Port Hudson, May 27th, 1863. Dark as the clouds of even, Ranked in the western heaven, Waiting the breath that lifts All the dread mass, and drifts Tempest and falling brand Over a ruined land;-- So still and orderly, Arm to arm, knee to knee, Waiting the great event, Stands the black regiment.
Down the long dusky line Teeth gleam and eyeballs shine;
And the bright bayonet, Bristling and firmly set, Flashed with a purpose grand, Long ere the sharp command Of the fierce rolling drum Told them their time had come, Told them what work was sent For the black regiment.
"Now," the flag-sergeant cried, "Though death and hell betide, Let the whole nation see If we are fit to be Free in this land; or bound Down, like the whining hound,-- Bound with red stripes of pain In our old chains again!"
Oh, what a shout there went From the black regiment!
"Charge!"
Trump and drum awoke, Onward the bondmen broke;
Bayonet and sabre-stroke Vainly opposed their rush.
Through the wild battle's crush, With but one thought aflush, Driving their lords like chaff, In the guns' mouths they laugh;
Or at the slippery brands Leaping with open hands, Down they tear man and horse, Down in their awful course;
Trampling with bloody heel Over the crashing steel, All their eyes forward bent, Rushed the black regiment.
"Freedom!"
their battle-cry,-- Freedom!
or leave to die!"
Ah!
and they meant the word,-- Not as with us 'tis heard, Not a mere party shout: They gave their spirits out;
Trusted the end to God, And on the gory sod Rolled in triumphant blood.
Glad to strike one free blow, Whether for weal or woe;
Glad to breathe one free breath, Though on the lips of death.
Praying--alas!
in vain!
-- That they might fall again, So they could once more see That bust to liberty!
This was what "freedom" lent To the black regiment.
Hundreds on hundreds fell;
But they are resting well;
Scourges and shackles strong Never shall do them wrong.
Oh, to the living few, Soldiers, be just and true!
Hail them as comrades tried;
Fight with them side by side;
Never, in field or tent, Scorn the black regiment!
Copyright: permission of George Boker, Esq.
THE SWORD-BEARER
From 'Poems of the War' March 8th, 1862 Brave Morris saw the day was lost;
For nothing now remained, On the wrecked and sinking Cumberland, But to save the flag unstained.
So he swore an oath in the sight of Heaven,-- If he kept it the world can tell:-- "Before I strike to a rebel flag, I'll sink to the gates of hell!
"Here, take my sword; 'tis in my way;
I shall trip o'er the useless steel;
For I'll meet the lot that falls to all With my shoulder at the wheel."
So the little negro took the sword;
And oh, with what reverent care, Following his master step by step, He bore it here and there!
A thought had crept through his sluggish brain, And shone in his dusky face, That somehow--he could not tell just how-- 'Twas the sword of his trampled race.
And as Morris, great with his lion heart, Rushed onward from gun to gun, The little negro slid after him, Like a shadow in the sun.
But something of pomp and of curious pride The sable creature wore, Which at any time but a time like that Would have made the ship's crew roar.
Over the wounded, dying, and dead, Like an usher of the rod, The black page, full of his mighty trust, With dainty caution trod.
No heed he gave to the flying ball, No heed to the bursting shell;
His duty was something more than life, And he strove to do it well.
Down, with our starry flag apeak, In the whirling sea we sank, And captain and crew and the sword-bearer Were washed from the bloody plank.
They picked us up from the hungry waves;-- Alas!
not all!
--"And where, Where is the faithful negro lad?"
-- "Back oars!
avast!
look there!"
We looked; and, as Heaven may save my soul, I pledge you a sailor's word, There, fathoms deep in the sea, he lay, Still grasping the master's sword!
We drew him out; and many an hour We wrought with his rigid form, Ere the almost smothered spark of life By slow degrees grew warm.
The first dull glance that his eyeballs rolled Was down towards his shrunken hand;
And he smiled, and closed his eyes again As they fell on the rescued brand.
And no one touched the sacred sword, Till at length, when Morris came, The little negro stretched it out, With his eager eyes aflame.
And if Morris wrung the poor boy's hand, And his words seemed hard to speak, And tears ran down his manly cheeks, What tongue shall call him weak?
This and the sonnets on next page are copyrighted, and used by permission of George Boker, Esq.
SONNETS
Either the sum of this sweet mutiny Amongst thy features argues me some harm, Or else they practice wicked treachery Against themselves, thy heart, and hapless me.
For as I start aside with blank alarm, Dreading the glitter which begins to arm Thy clouded brows, lo!
from thy lips I see A smile come stealing, like a loaded bee, Heavy with sweets and perfumes, all ablaze With soft reflections from the flowery wall Whereon it pauses.
Yet I will not raise One question more, let smile or frown befall, Taxing thy love where I should only praise, And asking changes that might change thee all.
Oh for some spirit, some magnetic spark, That used nor word, nor rhyme, nor balanced pause Of doubtful phrase, which so supinely draws My barren verse, and blurs love's shining mark With misty fancies!
--Oh!
to burst the dark Of smothered feeling with some new-found laws, Hidden in nature, that might bridge the flaws Between two beings, end this endless cark, And make hearts know what lips have never said!
Oh!
for some spell, by which one soul might move With echoes from another, and dispread Contagious music through its chords, above The touch of mimic art: that thou might'st tread Beneath thy feet this wordy show of love!
Here let the motions of the world be still!
-- Here let Time's fleet and tireless pinions stay Their endless flight!
--or to the present day Bind my Love's life and mine.
I have my fill Of earthly bliss: to move is to meet ill.
Though lavish fortune in my path might lay Fame, power, and wealth,--the toys that make the play Of earth's grown children,--I would rather till The stubborn furrows of an arid land, Toil with the brute, bear famine and disease, Drink bitter bondage to the very lees, Than break our union by love's tender band, Or drop its glittering shackles from my hand, To grasp at empty glories such as these.
SAINT BONAVENTURA
(1221-1274)
