名人诗歌|For the Union Dead

Robert Lowell

Relinquunt Omnia Servare Rem Publicam.

The old South Boston Aquarium^{1 stands}

in a Sahara of snow now. Its broken windows are boarded.

The bronze weathervane cod^{2 has lost half its scales.}

The airy tanks are dry.

once my nose crawled like a snail^{3 on the glass；}

my hand tingled⁴

to burst the bubbles

drifting from the noses of the cowed， compliant^{5 fish.}

My hand draws back. I often sigh still

for the dark downward and vegetating^{6 kingdom}

of the fish and reptile^{7. One morning last March，}

I pressed against the new barbed and galvanized

fence on the Boston Common. Behind their cage，

yellow dinosaur^{8 steamshovels were grunting9}

as they cropped up tons of mush and grass

to gouge^{10 their underworld garage.}

Parking spaces luxuriate like civic¹¹

sandpiles in the heart of Boston.

A girdle of orange， Puritan-pumpkin colored girders

braces^{12 the tingling13 Statehouse，}

shaking over the excavations^{14， as it faces Colonel Shaw}

and his bell-cheeked Negro infantry¹⁵

on St. Gaudens' shaking Civil War relief，

propped^{16 by a plank17 splint against the garage's earthquake.}

Two months after marching through Boston，

half the regiment^{18 was dead；}

at the dedication^19，

William James could almost hear the bronze Negroes breathe.

Their monument sticks like a fishbone

in the city's throat.

Its Colonel is as lean

as a compass-needle.

He has an angry wrenlike vigilance，

a greyhound's gentle tautness^20；

he seems to wince^{21 at pleasure，}

and suffocate^{22 for privacy.}

He is out of bounds now. He rejoices in man's lovely，

peculiar^{23 power to choose life and die -}

when he leads his black soldiers to death，

he cannot bend his back.

On a thousand small town New England greens，

the old white churches hold their air

of sparse^{24， sincere rebellion； frayed25 flags}

quilt the graveyards^{26 of the Grand Army of the Republic.}

The stone statues of the abstract Union Soldier

grow slimmer and younger each year -

wasp-waisted， they doze^{27 over muskets28}

and muse^{29 through their sideburns}

Shaw's father wanted no monument

except the ditch，

where his son's body was thrown

and lost with his niggers.

The ditch is nearer.

There are no statues for the last war here；

on Boylston Street， a commercial photograph

shows Hiroshima boiling

over a Mosler Safe， the Rock of Ages

that survived the blast. Space is nearer.

When I crouch^{30 to my television set，}

the drained faces of Negro school-children rise like balloons.

Colonel Shaw

is riding on his bubble，

he waits

for the blessd break.

The Aquarium is gone. Everywhere，

giant finned^{31 cars nose forward like fish；}

a savage^{32 servility}

slides by on grease.