O, WHITHER sail you, Sir John Franklin? Cried a whaler in Baffin’s Bay. To know if between the land and the pole I may find a broad sea-way.…
George Henry Boker was a 19th century American poet and playwright who also spent a number of years overseas in the diplomatic service of his country. Many of his poems were sonnets and these were so well regarded that critics have described him as one of the best American sonnet writers. He was born on the 6th October 1823 in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, the son of a wealthy banker who had some difficulties during the financial crisis years of 1838-40. Boker later defended his father’s honour in a book called The Book of the Dead. Despite all that he grew up in comfortable circumstances, attending private schools and then Princeton University. Here he first became seriously interested in literature, becoming the first editor of a literary magazine called the Nassau Monthly. This is still going strong, though is now called the Nassau Lit. He had, though, shown a much earlier interest in poetry, reading it from the age of nine. During his time at Princeton he studied avidly the works of Lord Byron, Shelley and Shakespeare, amongst others. He graduated in 1842 and decided to study law. He was married soon afterwards and, although he used his knowledge of legal matters while serving as a diplomat, poetry would always be his main interest. After his father died Boker had the advantage of being able to devote his time to leisure pursuits like dancing, the sport of boxing and, of course, writing. He had his first collection of poems published in 1848 under the title The Lessons of Life, and other Poems. He was associating with others from the world of literature, names such as Richard Henry Stoddard and Bayard Taylor. These men became life-long friends and each would encourage the other in their literary pursuits. Boker’s poetic output was considerable but he was also prolific in the writing of plays. He wrote tragedies such as one about the conflict between the Spanish people and the invading Moors. Calaynos was staged in London during May 1848 and two years later he wrote Anne Boleyn. On a lighter note, the same year, he wrote a comedy called The Betrothal. The overall impression that one would get from his plays though is that they were written by a poet, often in verse style, although he still ensured that they had a good dramatic flow. Boker changed political allegiances during the Civil War, becoming a staunch Republican, and he set down his thoughts on the conflict in a volume of poems published in 1864 called Poems of the War. Reproduced below is an extract from The Black Regiment which tells of the glory to be found in the fighting exploits of men who had once been slaves to their white masters but who now stood on the battlefield, intent on victory if possible. Here are the opening two verses and the last one: Boker’s literary career was put on hold for a number of years when he was sent to Constantinople in 1871, appointed U.S. Minister by President Ulysses S. Grant. He did great diplomatic work there despite struggling with the Turkish language and having little faith in his interpreters. He was sent to a similar post in Russia, in 1875, but was recalled from that three years later. He returned home somewhat chastened, fearing that he had been a failure as both a diplomat and as a poet. This was clearly not true though. His work remained popular and a collection of sonnets called was published in 1927, over thirty years after his death. George Henry Boker died on the 2nd January 1890 in Philadelphia. He was 66 years old.
George Henry Boker şiirleri
O brother bards, why stand ye silent all, Amidst these days of noble strife, While drum and fife and the fierce trumpet-call Awake the land to life?…
While Sherman stood beneath the hot test fire, That from the lines of Vicksburg gleamed, And bomb-shells tumbled in their smoky gyre, And grape-shot hissed, and case-shot screamed;…
Close his eyes; his work is done! What to him is friend or foeman, Rise of moon, or set of sun, Hand of man, or kiss of woman?…
Clash, clash goes the sabre against my steed's side, Kling, kling go the rowels, as onward I ride; And all my bright harness is living and speaks, And under my horseshoes the frost…
Love is that orbit of the restless soul Whose circle grazes the confines of space, Bounding within the limits of its race Utmost extremes; whose high and topmost pole…
I bend and kiss thee; 'tis a little thing; Thousands have passed between us; and, God grant, That nectarous sip our lips may never want; Slight in itself, yet so much witnessing!…
My lady's birthday rises golden fair, And I arise to see the lord of light Beaconing the land from every flaming height, And hanging blazoned banners on the air.…
Mere love, the common commerce of the earth, Is little in its uses; scarcely won, Ere o'ercloyed taste is sickened and undone By what it craved for at its eager birth.…
Thy birthday opened with artillery;-- The flash and thunder of the breaking wave, At early dawn, a greeting salvo gave, While roared the outer crowded, jostling sea.…
The years repeat themselves; and now, once more, The day that gave my darling birth is here; How swift, alas! in what a mad career The rushing sands of happy days outpour!…
Darling, to say I love thee, is to say What I have often said, with careless arm Round Chloe's waist, in breath no wit too warm For the hot ear that close against me lay.…
In lingering winter was my darling born, To make amends by Nature for her dearth And cutting winds, that over buried earth, Blew darkness in the face of surly morn.…
Love sat at ease upon Time's bony knee; Pulled his grey beard; paddled his finger-tips Among his wrinkles; smote his bloodIess lips; With rosy palms, forbade his eyes to see;…
These blows of fate that shake our troubled life, This long, long sorrow o'er our parted fate, Like foes assailing us with armed hate, But drive us closer, to resist the strife.…
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