Poems of Henry Timrod [23]
a lover's breath, Lie in a temporary death;
And till the heart is wooed and won It is an earth without a sun.
III
But now, stand forth as sweet as life! And let me paint you as a wife.
I note some changes in your face, And in your mien a graver grace;
Yet the calm forehead lightly bears Its weight of twice a score of years;
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.
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.
Your voice was always soft in youth, And had the very sound of truth,
But never were its tones so mild Until you blessed your earliest child;
And when to soothe some little wrong It melts into a mother's song,
The same strange sweetness which in years Long vanished filled the eyes with tears,
And (even when mirthful) gave always A pathos to your girlish lays,
Falls, with perchance a deeper thrill, Upon the breathless listener still.
I cannot guess in what fair spot The chance of Time hath fixed your lot,
Nor can I name what manly breast Gives to that head a welcome rest;
I cannot tell if partial Fate Hath made you poor, or rich, or great;
But oh! whatever be your place, I never saw a form or face
To which more plainly hath been lent The blessing of a full content!
La Belle Juive
Is it because your sable hair Is folded over brows that wear At times a too imperial air;
Or is it that the thoughts which rise In those dark orbs do seek disguise Beneath the lids of Eastern eyes;
That choose whatever pose or place May chance to please, in you I trace The noblest woman of your race?
The crowd is sauntering at its ease, And humming like a hive of bees -- You take your seat and touch the keys:
I do not hear the giddy throng; The sea avenges Israel's wrong, And on the wind floats Miriam's song!
You join me with a stately grace; Music to Poesy gives place; Some grand emotion lights your face:
At once I stand by Mizpeh's walls: With smiles the martyred daughter falls, And desolate are Mizpeh's halls!
Intrusive babblers come between; With calm, pale brow and lofty mien, You thread the circle like a queen!
Then sweeps the royal Esther by; The deep devotion in her eye Is looking "If I die, I die!"
You stroll the garden's flowery walks; The plants to me are grainless stalks, And Ruth to old Naomi talks.
Adopted child of Judah's creed, Like Judah's daughters, true at need, I see you mid the alien seed.
I watch afar the gleaner sweet; I wake like Boaz in the wheat, And find you lying at my feet!
My feet! Oh! if the spell that lures My heart through all these dreams endures, How soon shall I be stretched at yours!
An Exotic
Not in a climate near the sun Did the cloud with its trailing fringes float, Whence, white as the down of an angel's plume, Fell the snow of her brow and throat.
And the ground had been rich for a thousand years With the blood of heroes, and sages, and kings, Where the rose that blooms in her exquisite cheek Unfolded the
And till the heart is wooed and won It is an earth without a sun.
III
But now, stand forth as sweet as life! And let me paint you as a wife.
I note some changes in your face, And in your mien a graver grace;
Yet the calm forehead lightly bears Its weight of twice a score of years;
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.
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.
Your voice was always soft in youth, And had the very sound of truth,
But never were its tones so mild Until you blessed your earliest child;
And when to soothe some little wrong It melts into a mother's song,
The same strange sweetness which in years Long vanished filled the eyes with tears,
And (even when mirthful) gave always A pathos to your girlish lays,
Falls, with perchance a deeper thrill, Upon the breathless listener still.
I cannot guess in what fair spot The chance of Time hath fixed your lot,
Nor can I name what manly breast Gives to that head a welcome rest;
I cannot tell if partial Fate Hath made you poor, or rich, or great;
But oh! whatever be your place, I never saw a form or face
To which more plainly hath been lent The blessing of a full content!
La Belle Juive
Is it because your sable hair Is folded over brows that wear At times a too imperial air;
Or is it that the thoughts which rise In those dark orbs do seek disguise Beneath the lids of Eastern eyes;
That choose whatever pose or place May chance to please, in you I trace The noblest woman of your race?
The crowd is sauntering at its ease, And humming like a hive of bees -- You take your seat and touch the keys:
I do not hear the giddy throng; The sea avenges Israel's wrong, And on the wind floats Miriam's song!
You join me with a stately grace; Music to Poesy gives place; Some grand emotion lights your face:
At once I stand by Mizpeh's walls: With smiles the martyred daughter falls, And desolate are Mizpeh's halls!
Intrusive babblers come between; With calm, pale brow and lofty mien, You thread the circle like a queen!
Then sweeps the royal Esther by; The deep devotion in her eye Is looking "If I die, I die!"
You stroll the garden's flowery walks; The plants to me are grainless stalks, And Ruth to old Naomi talks.
Adopted child of Judah's creed, Like Judah's daughters, true at need, I see you mid the alien seed.
I watch afar the gleaner sweet; I wake like Boaz in the wheat, And find you lying at my feet!
My feet! Oh! if the spell that lures My heart through all these dreams endures, How soon shall I be stretched at yours!
An Exotic
Not in a climate near the sun Did the cloud with its trailing fringes float, Whence, white as the down of an angel's plume, Fell the snow of her brow and throat.
And the ground had been rich for a thousand years With the blood of heroes, and sages, and kings, Where the rose that blooms in her exquisite cheek Unfolded the