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Rebellion Record: a Diary of American Events: Poetry and Incidents., Volume 3. (ed. Frank Moore), chapter 54 (search)
22. Zagonyi. by George H. Boker. Bold captain of the Body-Guard, I'll troll a stave to thee! My voice is somewhat harsh and hard, And rough my minstrelsy. I've cheered until my throat is sore For how our boys at Beaufort bore; Yet here's a cheer for thee! I hear thy jingling spurs and reins, Thy sabre at thy knee; The blood runs lighter through my veins, As I before me see Thy hundred men, with thrusts and blows, Ride down a thousand stubborn foes, The foremost led by thee. With pistol snap and rifle crack-- Mere salvos fired to honor thee-- Ye plunge, and stamp, and shoot, and hack The way your swords make free; Then back again — the path is wide This time — ye gods! it was a ride, The ride they took with thee! No guardsman of the whole command Halts, quails, or turns to flee; With bloody spur and steady hand They gallop where they see Thy leading plume stream out ahead, O'er flying, wounded, dying, dead; They can but follow thee. So, captain of the Body-Guard, I pledge a health
Rebellion Record: a Diary of American Events: Poetry and Incidents., Volume 3. (ed. Frank Moore), chapter 147 (search)
55. ode to America. by Geo. H. Boker. No more of girls and wine, No more of pastoral joys, No after-sighing for some antique line Of bearded kings who, at their nation's birth, As children play with toys, Made merry with our earth: No more, no more of these! The girls are pale; The wine is drunken to the less; Still are the bleatings of the woolly fold; The olden kings look thin and cold, Like dim belated ghosts That hurrying sail Toward their dark graves, Along the brightening coasts, Chased by the golden lances hurled From the young sun above his cloudy world. My country, let me turn to thee, With love and pride that glow Pure as twin-altar fires that blow Their flames together to one Deity. Look where I may, O land beneath the iron sway Of the strong hand;-- O land gored through and through By thy own faithless brand; Land of once happy homes, To whose now darkened doors The hand of sorrow comes, Early and late, and pours, With no soft prelude, or no warning beat, Her urn of bit