The Poems of Henry Timrod | Page 4

first volume in these words: "These poems are worthy of a wide audience, and they form a welcome offering to the common literature of our country."
In this first volume was evinced the culture, the lively fancy, the delicate and vigorous imagination, and the finished artistic power of his mind, even then rejoicing in the fullness and freshness of its creations and in the unwearied flow of its natural music. But it fell then on the great world of letters almost unheeded, shut out by the war cloud that soon broke upon the land,?enveloping all in darkness.
The edition of his complete poems was not issued until the South was recovering from the ravage of war, and was entitled?"The Poems of Henry Timrod, edited with a sketch of the Poet's life by Paul H. Hayne. E. J. Hale & Son, publishers, New York, 1873." And immediately, in 1874, there followed a second edition of this volume, which contained the noble series of war poems and other lyrics written since the edition of 1860. In 1884 an illustrated edition of "Katie" was published by Hale & Son, New York. All of these editions were long ago exhausted by an admiring public.
The present edition contains the poems of all the former editions, and also some earlier poems not heretofore published.
The name of Timrod has been closely identified with the history of South Carolina for over a century. Before the Revolution, Henry Timrod, of German birth, the founder of the family in America, was a prominent citizen of Charleston, and the president of that historic association, the German Friendly Society, still existing, a century and a quarter old. We find his name first on the roll of the German Fusiliers of Charleston, volunteers formed in May, 1775, for the defense of the country, immediately on hearing of?the battle of Lexington. Again in the succeeding generation, in the Seminole war and in the peril of St. Augustine,?the German Fusiliers were commanded by his son, Captain William Henry Timrod, who was the father of the poet, and who himself published a volume of poems in the early part of the century. He was the editor of a literary periodical published in Charleston, to which he himself largely contributed. He was of strong intellect and delicate feelings, and an ardent patriot.
Some of the more striking of the poems of the elder Timrod are the following. Washington Irving said of these lines that Tom Moore had written no finer lyric: --
To Time, the Old Traveler
They slander thee, Old Traveler,?Who say that thy delight?Is to scatter ruin, far and wide,?In thy wantonness of might:?For not a leaf that falleth?Before thy restless wings,?But in thy flight, thou changest it?To a thousand brighter things.
Thou passest o'er the battlefield?Where the dead lie stiff and stark,?Where naught is heard save the vulture's scream,?And the gaunt wolf's famished bark;?But thou hast caused the grain to spring?From the blood-enrich|\ed clay,?And the waving corn-tops seem to dance?To the rustic's merry lay.
Thou hast strewed the lordly palace?In ruins on the ground,?And the dismal screech of the owl is heard?Where the harp was wont to sound;?But the selfsame spot thou coverest?With the dwellings of the poor,?And a thousand happy hearts enjoy?What ONE usurped before.
'T is true thy progress layeth?Full many a loved one low,?And for the brave and beautiful?Thou hast caused our tears to flow;?But always near the couch of death?Nor thou, nor we can stay;?AND THE BREATH OF THY DEPARTING WINGS,?DRIES ALL OUR TEARS AWAY!
The Mocking-Bird
Nor did lack?Sweet music to the magic of the scene:?The little crimson-breasted Nonpareil?Was there, his tiny feet scarce bending down?The silken tendril that he lighted on?To pour his love notes; and in russet coat,?Most homely, like true genius bursting forth?In spite of adverse fortune, a full choir?Within himself, the merry Mock Bird sate,?Filling the air with melody; and at times,?IN THE RAPT FAVOR OF HIS SWEETEST SONG,?HIS QUIVERING FORM WOULD SPRING INTO THE SKY,?IN SPIRAL CIRCLES, AS IF HE WOULD CATCH?NEW POWERS FROM KINDRED WARBLERS IN THE CLOUDS?WHO WOULD BEND DOWN TO GREET HIM!
These lines, addressed to the poet by his father, have a pathetic interest: --
To Harry
Harry, my little blue-eyed boy,?I love to have thee playing near;?There's music in thy shouts of joy?To a fond father's ear.
I love to see the lines of mirth?Mantle thy cheek and forehead fair,?As if all pleasures of the earth?Had met to revel there;
For gazing on thee, do I sigh?That those most happy years must flee,?And thy full share of misery?Must fall in life on thee!
There is no lasting grief below,?My Harry! that flows not from guilt;?Thou canst not read my meaning now --?In after times thou wilt.
Thou'lt read it when the churchyard clay?Shall lie upon thy father's breast,?And he, though dead, will point the way?Thou shalt be always blest.
They'll tell thee this terrestrial ball,?To man for