The Poems Of Henry Timrod Part 6

Too long, O Spirit of Storm, Thy lightning sleeps in its sheath!

I am sick to the soul of yon pallid sky, And the moveless sea beneath.

Come down in thy strength on the deep!

Worse dangers there are in life, When the waves are still, and the skies look fair, Than in their wildest strife.

A friend I knew, whose days Were as calm as this sky overhead; But one blue morn that was fairest of all, The heart in his bosom fell dead.

And they thought him alive while he walked The streets that he walked in youth-- Ah! little they guessed the seeming man Was a soulless corpse in sooth.

Come down in thy strength, O Storm!

And lash the deep till it raves!

I am sick to the soul of that quiet sea, Which hides ten thousand graves.

The Lily Confidante

Lily! lady of the garden!

Let me press my lip to thine!

Love must tell its story, Lily!

Listen thou to mine.

Two I choose to know the secret-- Thee, and yonder wordless flute; Dragons watch me, tender Lily, And thou must be mute.

There's a maiden, and her name is...

Hist! was that a rose-leaf fell?

See, the rose is listening, Lily, And the rose may tell.

Lily-browed and lily-hearted, She is very dear to me; Lovely? yes, if being lovely Is--resembling thee.

Six to half a score of summers Make the sweetest of the "teens"-- Not too young to guess, dear Lily, What a lover means.

Laughing girl, and thoughtful woman, I am puzzled how to woo-- Shall I praise, or pique her, Lily?

Tell me what to do.

"Silly lover, if thy Lily Like her sister lilies be, Thou must woo, if thou wouldst wear her, With a simple plea.

"Love's the lover's only magic, Truth the very subtlest art; Love that feigns, and lips that flatter, Win no modest heart.

"Like the dewdrop in my bosom, Be thy guileless language, youth; Falsehood buyeth falsehood only, Truth must purchase truth.

"As thou talkest at the fireside, With the little children by-- As thou prayest in the darkness, When thy G.o.d is nigh--

"With a speech as chaste and gentle, And such meanings as become Ear of child, or ear of angel, Speak, or be thou dumb.

"Woo her thus, and she shall give thee Of her heart the sinless whole, All the girl within her bosom, And her woman's soul."

The Stream is Flowing from the West

The stream is flowing from the west; As if it poured from yonder skies, It wears upon its rippling breast The sunset's golden dyes; And bearing onward to the sea, 'T will clasp the isle that holdeth thee.

I dip my hand within the wave; Ah! how impressionless and cold!

I touch it with my lip, and lave My forehead in the gold.

It is a trivial thought, but sweet, Perhaps the wave will kiss thy feet.

Alas! I leave no trace behind-- As little on the senseless stream As on thy heart, or on thy mind; Which was the simpler dream, To win that warm, wild love of thine, Or make the water whisper mine?

Dear stream! some moons must wax and wane Ere I again shall cross thy tide, And then, perhaps, a viewless chain Will drag me to her side, To love with all my spirit's scope, To wish, do everything but--hope.

Vox et Praeterea Nihil

I've been haunted all night, I've been haunted all day, By the ghost of a song, by the shade of a lay, That with meaningless words and profusion of rhyme, To a dreamy and musical rhythm keeps time.

A simple, but still a most magical strain, Its dim monotones have bewildered my brain With a specious and cunning appearance of thought, I seem to be catching but never have caught.

I know it embodies some very sweet things, And can almost divine the low burden it sings; But again, and again, and still ever again, It has died on my ear at the touch of my pen.

And so it keeps courting and shunning my quest, As a bird that has just been aroused from her nest, Too fond to depart, and too frightened to stay, Now circles about you, now flutters away.

Oh! give me fit words for that exquisite song, And thou couldst not, proud beauty! be obdurate long; It would come like the voice of a saint from above, And win thee to kindness, and melt thee to love.

Not gilded with fancy, nor frigid with art, But simple as feeling, and warm as the heart, It would murmur my name with so charming a tone, As would almost persuade thee to wish it thine own.

Madeline

O lady! if, until this hour, I've gazed in those bewildering eyes, Yet never owned their touching power, But when thou couldst not hear my sighs; It has not been that love has slept One single moment in my soul, Or that on lip or look I kept A stern and stoical control; But that I saw, but that I felt, In every tone and glance of thine, Whate'er they spoke, where'er they dwelt, How small, how poor a part was mine; And that I deeply, dearly knew, THAT hidden, hopeless love confessed, The fatal words would lose me, too, Even the weak friendship I possessed.

And so, I masked my secret well; The very love within my breast Became the strange, but potent spell By which I forced it into rest.

Yet there were times--I scarce know how These eager lips refrained to speak,-- Some kindly smile would light thy brow, And I grew pa.s.sionate and weak; The secret sparkled at my eyes, And love but half repressed its sighs,-- Then had I gazed an instant more, Or dwelt one moment on that brow, I might have changed the smile it wore, To what perhaps it weareth now, And spite of all I feared to meet, Confessed that pa.s.sion at thy feet.

To save my heart, to spare thine own, There was one remedy alone.

I fled, I shunned thy very touch,-- It cost me much, O G.o.d! how much!

But if some burning tears were shed, Lady! I let them freely flow; At least, they left unbreathed, unsaid, A worse and wilder woe.

But now,--NOW that we part indeed, And that I may not think as then, That as I wish, or as I need, I may return again,-- Now that for months, perhaps for years-- I see no limit in my fears-- My home shall be some distant spot, Where thou--where even thy name is not, And since I shall not see the frown, Such wild, mad language must bring down, Could I--albeit I may not sue In hope to bend thy steadfast will-- Could I have breathed this word, adieu, And kept my secret still?