Henry Timrod

“ Conscious of his power, he reverently believed in the mission of the poet as prophet and teacher,—
"The mission of Genius on Earth! To uplift, Purify, and confirm, by its own gracious gift, The world,"—
and he has consecrated his gift to its noblest uses in the discharge of that "high and holy debt".
As lover of man and nature, his sympathy was universal; no theme was too humble for his pen. "The same law that moulds a planet forms a drop of dew." "Humility is power!" "We may trace the mighty sun above even by the shadow of a slender flower." ”

“ Wild weeds grow rank about the place, A dark, cold spot, and drear; The dull neglect that marked his life Has followed even here. Around shine many a marble shaft And polished pillars fair, And strangers stand on Timrod's grave To praise them, unaware! "Hold up the glories of thy dead!" To thine own self be true, Land that he loved! Come, honor now This grave that honors you!
The one characteristic above all others that marked the poet's life was his unfaltering trust,—the soul's unclouded sky, a quenchless radiance of blessed sunlight amid the deep darkness that encompassed him. ”

“ The time must come wherein thou shalt be taught The value and the beauty of the Past. Not merely as a warner and a guide, "A voice behind thee," sounding to the strife; But something never to be put aside, A part and parcel of thy present life. Not as a distant and a darkened sky, Through which the stars peep, and the moon-beams glow; But a surrounding atmosphere, whereby We live and breathe, sustained in pain and woe. A shadowy land, where joy and sorrow kiss, Each still to each corrective and relief, Where dim delights are brightened into bliss, And nothing wholly perishes but Grief. ”

“ None touch the sky. None pierce the pure and lofty atmosphere Which I breathe now, And the strong spirits that inhabit there, Live—God sees how. Sick of the very treasure which they heap; Their tearless eyes Sealed ever in a heaven-forgetting sleep, Whose dreams are lies; And so, a motley, unattractive throng, They toil and plod, Dead to the holy ecstasies of song, To love, and God. Dear God! if that I may not keep through life My trust, my truth, And that I must, in yonder endless strife, Lose faith with youth ”

“ The Lily calmly braves the storm, And shall the Palm-tree fear? No! rather let its branches court The rack that sweeps the plain; And from the Lily's regal port Learn how to breast the strain! Ho! woodsmen of the mountain side! Ho! dwellers in the vales! Ho! ye who by the roaring tide Have roughened in the gales! Come! flocking gayly to the fight, From forest, hill, and lake; We battle for our Country's right, And for the Lily's sake!
Charleston Calm as that second summer which precedes The first fall of the snow, In the broad sunlight of heroic deeds, The City bides the foe. ”

“ Of them, their patriot zeal and pride, The lofty faith that with them died, No grateful page shall farther tell Than that so many bravely fell; And we can only dimly guess What worlds of all this world's distress, What utter woe, despair, and dearth, Their fate has brought to many a hearth. Just such a sky as this should weep Above them, always, where they sleep; Yet, haply, at this very hour, Their graves are like a lover's bower; And Nature's self, with eyes unwet, Oblivious of the crimson debt To which she owes her April grace, Laughs gayly o'er their burial-place. ”

“ But wave the foliage as it may, And let the sky be ashen gray, Thus much at least a manly youth May hold—and yet not blush—as truth: If near that blessed spot of earth Which saw the cherished maiden's birth No softer dews than usual rise, And life there keeps its wonted guise, Yet not the less that spot may seem As lovely as a poet's dream; And should a fervid faith incline To make thereof a sainted shrine, Who may deny that round us throng A hundred earthly creeds as wrong, But meaner far, which yet unblamed Stalk by us and are not ashamed? ”

“ In this poor life we may not cross One virtuous instinct without loss, And the soul grows not to its height Till love calls forth its utmost might. Not blind to all you might have been, And with some consciousness of sin— Because with love you sometimes played, And choice, not fate, hath kept you maid— You feel that you must pass from earth But half-acquainted with its worth, And that within your heart are deeps In which a nobler woman sleeps; That not the maiden, but the wife Grasps the whole lesson of a life, While such as you but sit and dream Along the surface of its stream. ”

“ I hold no creed so false As that which dares to teach that we are born For battle only, and that in this life The soul, if it would burn with starlike power, Must needs forsooth be kindled by the sparks Struck from the shock of clashing human hearts. There is a wisdom that grows up in strife, And one—I like it best—that sits at home And learns its lessons of a thoughtful ease. So come! a lonely house awaits thee!—there Nor praise, nor blame shall reach us, save what love Of knowledge for itself shall wake at times In our own bosoms ”

“ Father! the fatherless are thine! Thou wilt not spurn the orphan's praise. Yet hear a single cry of pain! Lord! whilst we dream in quiet beds, The summer sun and winter rain Beat still on many homeless heads. And o'er this weary earth, we know, Young outcasts roam the waste and wave; And little hands are clasped in woe Above some tender mother's grave. Ye winds! keep every storm aloof, And kiss away the tears they weep! Ye skies, that make their only roof, Look gently on their houseless sleep! And thou, O Friend and Father! find A home to shield their helpless youth! ”

“ L "The Poet owes a high and holy debt, Which, if he feel, he craves not to be heard For the poor boon of praise, or place, nor yet Does the mere joy of song, as with the bird Of many voices, prompt the choral lay That cheers that gentle pilgrim on his way. LI "Nor may he always sweep the passionate lyre, Which is his heart, only for such relief As an impatient spirit may desire, Lest, from the grave which hides a private grief, The spells of song call up some pallid wraith To blast or ban a mortal hope or faith. ”

“ For while it calls to strife, He pauses on the very brink of fact To toy as with the shadow of an act, And utter those wise saws that cut so deep Into the core of life! Nor shall be wanting many a scene Where forms of more familiar mien, Moving through lowlier pathways, shall present The world of every day, Such as it whirls along the busy quay, Or sits beneath a rustic orchard wall, Or floats about a fashion-freighted hall, Or toils in attics dark the night away. Love, hate, grief, joy, gain, glory, shame, shall meet, As in the round wherein our lives are pent ”

“ Oh! when, long ago, My own dead mother gazed upon my face, As I stood blushing near in bridal snow, I had not half her beauty and her grace. Yet that fond mother praised, the world caressed, And ONE adored me—how shall HE who soon Shall wear my gentle flower upon his breast, Prize to its utmost worth the priceless boon? Shall he not gird her, guard her, make her rich, (Not as the world is rich, in outward show,) With all the love and watchful kindness which A wise and tender manhood may bestow? Oh! I shall part from her with many tears, My earthly treasure, pure and undefiled! ”

“ If now, as to the eyes of one Whose glance not even thought can shun, Your soul lay open to my view, I, looking all its nature through, Could see no incompleted part, For the whole woman warms your heart. I cannot tell how many dead You number in the cycles fled, And you but look the more serene For all the griefs you may have seen, As you had gathered from the dust The flowers of Peace, and Hope, and Trust. Your smile is even sweeter now Than when it lit your maiden brow, And that which wakes this gentler charm Coos at this moment on your arm. ”

“ Most men know love but as a part of life; They hide it in some corner of the breast, Even from themselves; and only when they rest In the brief pauses of that daily strife, Wherewith the world might else be not so rife, They draw it forth (as one draws forth a toy To soothe some ardent, kiss-exacting boy) And hold it up to sister, child, or wife. Ah me! why may not love and life be one? Why walk we thus alone, when by our side, Love, like a visible God, might be our guide? ”

“ With faults enough to make the good Seem sweeter far than else it would; Frank in your anger and your glee, And true as English natures be, Yet not without some maiden art Which hides a loving English heart. Still there are moments, brief and bright, When fancy, by a poet's light, Beholds you clothed with loftier charms Than love e'er gave to mortal arms. A spell is woven on the air From your brown eyes and golden hair, And all at once you seem to stand Before me as your native land, With all her greatness in your guise, And all her glory in your eyes ”

“ All birds that love the English sky Throng round my path when she is by: The blackbird from a neighboring thorn With music brims the cup of morn, And in a thick, melodious rain The mavis pours her mellow strain! But only when my Katie's voice Makes all the listening woods rejoice I hear—with cheeks that flush and pale— The passion of the nightingale! Anon the pictures round her change, And through an ancient town we range, Whereto the shadowy memory clings Of one of England's Saxon kings, And which to shrine his fading fame Still keeps his ashes and his name. ”

“ Nor these alone, But every stock and stone Shall help us; but the very soil, And all the generous wealth it gives to toil, And all for which we love our noble land, Shall fight beside, and through us; sea and strand, The heart of woman, and her hand, Tree, fruit, and flower, and every influence, Gentle, or grave, or grand; The winds in our defence Shall seem to blow; to us the hills shall lend Their firmness and their calm; And in our stiffened sinews we shall blend The strength of pine and palm! ”

“ At Timrod's Grave. 1877. Harp of the South! no more, no more Thy silvery strings shall quiver, The one strong hand might win thy strains Is chilled and stilled forever. Our one sweet singer breaks no more The silence sad and long, The land is hushed from shore to shore, It brooks no feebler song! No other voice can charm our ears, None other soothe our pain; Better these echoes lingering yet, Than any ruder strain. For singing, Fate has given sighs, For music we make moan; Oh, who may touch the harp-strings since That whisper—"HE IS GONE!" ”

“ And that one love which on this earth Can wake the heart to all its worth, And to their height can lift and bind The powers of soul, and sense, and mind, Hath not allowed a charm to fade— And the wife's lovelier than the maid. An air of still, though bright repose Tells that a tender hand bestows All that a generous manhood may To make your life one bridal day, While the kind eyes betray no less, In their blue depths of tenderness, That you have learned the truths which lie Behind that holy mystery, Which, with its blisses and its woes, Nor man nor maiden ever knows. ”