Dime novelist, magazine horticulturist, and rural Wisconsin postmaster Eben E. Rexford (1848–1916) embarked at fifteen on a literary career with the publication of a poem dedicated, ambitiously, “To My Wife.” His poetic oeuvre ran largely in that sentimental funeral-brooch vein of the late nineteenth century satirized by Mark Twain in “Huckleberry Finn.” But Rexford, like much of America at the time, was fascinated by the romance of the West. Today’s Poem of the Day, the 1881 “Ride of Paul Venarez,” is from the actual era of the Wild West. But, as befits its author (a minor literary figure, writing in the assumed voice of a cowboy), it tells a tale designed to tug at the heartstrings — which explains why the poem has never faded from the canon of Cowboy Poetry. It predates the first Western film by twenty-two years, yet it reads like a silent-movie script, with its rock-jawed frontier hero who sacrifices all for the love of “little Bessie.” The poem has a deliberate naiveté of form, with its slang and sometimes-iffy meter, but “The Ride of Paul Venarez” jolts along to arrive, a little saddle-sore, at its tragic dénouement. The Ride of Paul Venarez by Eben E. RexfordPaul Venarez heard them say, in the frontier town that day, That a band of Red Plume’s warriors was upon the trail of death; Heard them tell of a murder done — three men killed at Rocky Run. “They’re in danger up at Crawford’s,” said Venarez under breath. “Crawford’s” — thirty miles away — was a settlement that lay In a green and pleasant valley of the mighty wilderness; Half a score of homes was there, and in one a maiden fair Held the heart of Paul Venarez — “Paul Venarez’ little Bess.” So no wonder he grew pale when he heard the settlers’ tale Of the men he had seen murdered yesterday at Rocky Run. “Not a soul will dream,” he said, “of the danger that’s ahead; By my love for little Bessie, I must see that something’s done.” Not a moment he delayed when his brave resolve was made. “Why, my man,” his comrades told him when they knew his daring plan. “You are going straight to death.” But he answered, “Save your breath; I may fail to get to Crawford’s, but I’ll do the best I can.” O’er the forest trail he sped, and his thoughts flew on ahead To the little band at Crawford’s, thinking not of danger near. “Oh, God help me save,” cried he, “little Bess!” And fast and free, Trusty Nell bore on the hero of the far-away frontier. Low and lower sank the sun. He drew rein at Rocky Run; “Here these men met death, my Nellie,” and he stroked his horse’s mane. “So will they we go to warn, ere the breaking of the morn, If we fail. God help us, Nellie!” Then he gave his horse the rein. Sharp and keen a rifle-shot woke the echoes of the spot. “Oh, my Nellie, I am wounded,” cried Venarez, with a moan, And the warm blood from his side spurted out in a red tide, And he trembled in the saddle, and his face had ashy grown. “I will save them yet,” he cried. “Bessie Lee shall know I died For her sake.” And then he halted in the shelter of a hill. From his buckskin shirt he took, with weak hands a little book; And he tore a blank leaf from it. “This,” said he, “shall be my will.” From a branch a twig he broke, and he dipped his pen of oak In the red blood that was dripping from the wound below the heart. “Rouse,” he wrote, “before too late, Red Plume’s warriors lie in wait. Good-by Bess! God bless you always.” Then he felt the warm tears start. Then he made his message fast, love’s first letter, and its last; To his saddle-bow he tied it, while his lips were white with pain. “Bear my message, if not me, safe to little Bess,” said he. Then he leaned down in the saddle, and clutched hard the sweaty mane. Just at dusk, a horse of brown, flecked with foam, came panting down To the settlement at Crawford, and she stopped at Bessie’s door. But her rider seemed asleep. Ah, his slumber was so deep Bessie’s voice could never wake him, if she called forever more. You will hear the story told by the young and by the old In the settlement at Crawford’s, of the night when Red Plume came; Of the sharp and bloody fight; how the chief fell, and the flight Of the panic-stricken warriors. Then they speak Venarez’ name In an awed and reverent way, as men utter “Let us pray,” As we speak the name of heroes, thinking how they lived and died; So his memory is kept green, while his face and heaven between Grow the flowers Bessie planted, ere they laid her by his side.___________________________________________ With “Poem of the Day,” The New York Sun offers a daily portion of verse selected by Joseph Bottum with the help of the North Carolina poet Sally Thomas, the Sun’s associate poetry editor. Tied to the day, or the season, or just individual taste, the poems will be typically drawn from the lesser-known portion of the history of English verse. In the coming months we will be reaching out to contemporary poets for examples of current, primarily formalist work, to show that poetry can still serve as a delight to the ear, an instruction to the mind, and a tonic for the soul.
