John Henry Boner (1845-1903)
"Was born in Salem, N.C., 1845, and for sixteen years
was employed in the Civil Service at Washington. He is now connected with
the Century Co's publications. The two sonnets appeared in the
Washington Star
." (Crandall)
Easter Advent
It was a stormy night in early spring.
Long after sunset pale, green rifts of light
Gleamed in the west, changing to vitreous white,
And when these faded, darkness was a thing
Strangely portentous. There went whirring wing
Low in the air of birds in furious flight,—
Wild fowls blown from their courses in the night.
It was an eve for spectral imaging.
A sinless maiden in her chamber high
That Easter advent midnight heard a call:
Arise! arise! and startled from her bed
She saw a glory burst along the sky.
It lit with flame the cross upon her wall,
And through the splendor crimson rain was shed.
The Old Guard
Summer is routed from her rosy plains,
The splendid queen with colors flying fled
Far to the south, leaving her legions dead
Upon the fields all in the dismal rains.
The minstrels of her camp most plaintive strains
Piped as they flew. Then vandal armies spread
About the hills their tattered tents of red
And gold and purple and their gaudy trains
Usurped the valleys, firing as they went,
Till, halted by a cordon of grim pines
That would not yield nor furl their banners green.
Wounded they fought and moaned, though wellnigh spent.
With blood-drops trickling down their chevron vines
They fought, and stood—the Old Guard of their queen.
(Above
texts from Representative Sonnets by American Poets)
Remembrance
I think that we retain of our dead friends
And absent ones no general portraiture;
That perfect memory does not long endure,
But fades and fades until our own life ends.
Unconsciously, forgetfulness attends
That grief for which there is no other cure,
But leaves of each lost one some record sure,—
A look, an act, a tone,—something that lends
Relief and consolation, not regret.
Even that poor mother mourning her dead child,
Whose agonizing eyes with tears are wet,
Whose bleeding heart can not be reconciled
Unto the grave's embrace,—even she shall yet
Remember only when her babe first smiled.
(Above text from Masterpieces of
the Southern Poets
)
