The Poems Of Henry Timrod Part 7

Doubtless thou know'st the Hebrew story-- The tale 's with me a favorite one-- How Raphael left the Courts of Glory, And walked with Judah's honored Son; And how the twain together dwelt, And how they talked upon the road, How often too they must have knelt As equals to the same kind G.o.d; And still the mortal never guessed, How much and deeply he was blessed, Till when--the Angel's mission done-- The spell which drew him earthwards, riven-- The lover saved--the maiden won-- He plumed again his wings for Heaven; O Madeline! as unaware Thou hast been followed everywhere, And girt and guarded by a love, As warm, as tender in its care, As pure, ay, powerful in prayer, As any saint above!

Like the bright inmate of the skies, It only looked with friendly eyes, And still had worn the illusive guise, And thus at least been half concealed; But at this parting, painful hour, It spreads its wings, unfolds its power, And stands, like Raphael, revealed.

More, Lady! I would wish to speak,-- But it were vain, and words are weak, And now that I have bared my breast, Perchance thou wilt infer the rest.

So, so, farewell! I need not say I look, I ask for no reply, The cold and scarcely pitying "nay"

I read in that unmelted eye; Yet one dear favor, let me pray!

Days, months, however slow to me, Must drag at last their length away, And I return--if not to thee-- At least to breathe the same sweet air That wooes thy lips and waves thy hair.

Oh, then!--these daring lines forgot-- Look, speak, as thou hadst read them not.

So, Lady, may I still retain A right I would not lose again, For all that gold or guilt can buy, Or all that Heaven itself deny, A right such love may justly claim, Of seeing thee in friendship's name.

Give me but this, and still at whiles, A portion of thy faintest smiles, It were enough to bless; I may not, dare not ask for more Than boon so rich, and yet so poor, But I should die with less.

A Dedication

To K. S. G.

Fair Saxon, in my lover's creed, My love were smaller than your meed, And you might justly deem it slight, As wanting truth as well as sight, If, in that image which is shrined Where thoughts are sacred, you could find A single charm, or more or less, Than you to all kind eyes possess.

To me, even in the happiest dreams, Where, flushed with love's just dawning gleams, My hopes their radiant wings unfurl, You're but a simple English girl, No fairer, grace for grace arrayed, Than many a simple Southern maid; 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; And sometimes, as if angels sung, I hear her poets on your tongue.

And, therefore, I, who from a boy Have felt an almost English joy In England's undecaying might, And England's love of truth and right, Next to my own young country's fame Holding her honor and her name, I--who, though born where not a vale Hath ever nursed a nightingale, Have fed my muse with English song Until her feeble wing grew strong-- Feel, while with all the reverence meet I lay this volume at your feet, As if through your dear self I pay, For many a deep and deathless lay, For n.o.ble lessons n.o.bly taught, For tears, for laughter, and for thought, A portion of the mighty debt We owe to Shakespeare's England yet!

Katie

It may be through some foreign grace, And unfamiliar charm of face; It may be that across the foam Which bore her from her childhood's home, By some strange spell, my Katie brought, Along with English creeds and thought-- Entangled in her golden hair-- Some English sunshine, warmth, and air!

I cannot tell--but here to-day, A thousand billowy leagues away From that green isle whose twilight skies No darker are than Katie's eyes, She seems to me, go where she will, An English girl in England still!

I meet her on the dusty street, And daisies spring about her feet; Or, touched to life beneath her tread, An English cowslip lifts its head; And, as to do her grace, rise up The primrose and the b.u.t.tercup!

I roam with her through fields of cane, And seem to stroll an English lane, Which, white with blossoms of the May, Spreads its green carpet in her way!

As fancy wills, the path beneath Is golden gorse, or purple heath: And now we hear in woodlands dim Their unarticulated hymn, Now walk through rippling waves of wheat, Now sink in mats of clover sweet, Or see before us from the lawn The lark go up to greet the dawn!

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 pa.s.sion 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.

Quaint houses rise on either hand, But still the airs are fresh and bland, As if their gentle wings caressed Some new-born village of the West.

A moment by the Norman tower We pause; it is the Sabbath hour!

And o'er the city sinks and swells The chime of old St. Mary's bells, Which still resound in Katie's ears As sweet as when in distant years She heard them peal with jocund din A merry English Christmas in!

We pa.s.s the abbey's ruined arch, And statelier grows my Katie's march, As round her, wearied with the taint Of Transatlantic pine and paint, She sees a thousand tokens cast Of England's venerable Past!

Our reverent footsteps lastly claims The younger chapel of St. James, Which, though, as English records run, Not old, had seen full many a sun, Ere to the cold December gale The thoughtful Pilgrim spread his sail.

There Katie in her childish days Spelt out her prayers and lisped her praise, And doubtless, as her beauty grew, Did much as other maidens do-- Across the pews and down the aisle Sent many a beau-bewildering smile, And to subserve her spirit's need Learned other things beside the creed!

There, too, to-day her knee she bows, And by her one whose darker brows Betray the Southern heart that burns Beside her, and which only turns Its thoughts to Heaven in one request, Not all unworthy to be blest, But rising from an earthlier pain Than might beseem a Christian fane.

Ah! can the guileless maiden share The wish that lifts that pa.s.sionate prayer?

Is all at peace that breast within?

Good angels! warn her of the sin!

Alas! what boots it? who can save A willing victim of the wave?

Who cleanse a soul that loves its guilt?

Or gather wine when wine is spilt?

We quit the holy house and gain The open air; then, happy twain, Adown familiar streets we go, And now and then she turns to show, With fears that all is changing fast, Some spot that's sacred to her Past.

Here by this way, through shadows cool, A little maid, she tripped to school; And there each morning used to stop Before a wonder of a shop Where, built of apples and of pears, Rose pyramids of golden spheres; While, dangling in her dazzled sight, Ripe cherries cast a crimson light, And made her think of elfin lamps, And feast and sport in fairy camps, Whereat, upon her royal throne (Most richly carved in cherry-stone), t.i.tania ruled, in queenly state, The boisterous revels of the fete!

'T was yonder, with their "horrid" noise, Dismissed from books, she met the boys, Who, with a barbarous scorn of girls, Glanced slightly at her sunny curls, And laughed and leaped as reckless by As though no pretty face were nigh!

But--here the maiden grows demure-- Indeed she's not so VERY sure, That in a year, or haply twain, Who looked e'er failed to look again, And sooth to say, I little doubt (Some azure day, the truth will out!) That certain baits in certain eyes Caught many an unsuspecting prize; And somewhere underneath these eaves A budding flirt put forth its leaves!

Has not the sky a deeper blue, Have not the trees a greener hue, And bend they not with lordlier grace And n.o.bler shapes above the place Where on one cloudless winter morn My Katie to this life was born?

Ah, folly! long hath fled the hour When love to sight gave keener power, And lovers looked for special boons In brighter flowers and larger moons.

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?

So, therefore, Katie, as our stroll Ends at this portal, while you roll Those l.u.s.trous eyes to catch each ray That may recall some vanished day, I--let them jeer and laugh who will-- Stoop down and kiss the sacred sill!

So strongly sometimes on the sense These fancies hold their influence, That in long well-known streets I stray Like one who fears to lose his way.

The stranger, I, the native, she, Myself, not Kate, had crossed the sea; And changing place, and mixing times, I walk in unfamiliar climes!

These houses, free to every breeze That blows from warm Floridian seas, a.s.sume a ma.s.sive English air, And close around an English square; While, if I issue from the town, An English hill looks greenly down, Or round me rolls an English park, And in the Broad I hear the Larke!

Thus when, where woodland violets hide, I rove with Katie at my side, It scarce would seem amiss to say: "Katie! my home lies far away, Beyond the pathless waste of brine, In a young land of palm and pine!

There, by the tropic heats, the soul Is touched as if with living coal, And glows with such a fire as none Can feel beneath a Northern sun, Unless--my Katie's heart attest!-- 'T is kindled in an English breast!

Such is the land in which I live, And, Katie! such the soul I give.

Come! ere another morning beam, We'll cleave the sea with wings of steam; And soon, despite of storm or calm, Beneath my native groves of palm, Kind friends shall greet, with joy and pride, The Southron and his English bride!"

Why Silent?

Why am I silent from year to year?

Needs must I sing on these blue March days?

What will you say, when I tell you here, That already, I think, for a little praise, I have paid too dear?

For, I know not why, when I tell my thought, It seems as though I fling it away; And the charm wherewith a fancy is fraught, When secret, dies with the fleeting lay Into which it is wrought.

So my b.u.t.terfly-dreams their golden wings But seldom unfurl from their chrysalis; And thus I retain my loveliest things, While the world, in its worldliness, does not miss What a poet sings.

Two Portraits

I

You say, as one who shapes a life, That you will never be a wife,