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!