Poems of Henry Timrod [24]
flush of its wings.
On a land where the faces are fair, though pale As a moonlit mist when the winds are still, She breaks like a morning in Paradise Through the palms of an orient hill.
Her beauty, perhaps, were all too bright, But about her there broods some delicate spell, Whence the wondrous charm of the girl grows soft As the light in an English dell.
There is not a story of faith and truth On the starry scroll of her country's fame, But has helped to shape her stately mien, And to touch her soul with flame.
I sometimes forget, as she sweeps me a bow, That I gaze on a simple English maid, And I bend my head, as if to a queen Who is courting my lance and blade.
Once, as we read, in a curtained niche, A poet who sang of her sea-throned isle, There was something of Albion's mighty Bess In the flash of her haughty smile.
She seemed to gather from every age All the greatness of England about her there, And my fancy wove a royal crown Of the dusky gold of her hair.
But it was no queen to whom that day, In the dim green shade of a trellised vine, I whispered a hope that had somewhat to do With a small white hand in mine.
The Tudor had vanished, and, as I spoke, 'T was herself looked out of her frank brown eye, And an answer was burning upon her face, Ere I caught the low reply.
What was it! Nothing the world need know -- The stars saw our parting! Enough, that then I walked from the porch with the tread of a king, And she was a queen again!
The Rosebuds
Yes, in that dainty ivory shrine, With those three pallid buds, I twine And fold away a dream divine!
One night they lay upon a breast Where Love hath made his fragrant nest, And throned me as a life-long guest.
Near that chaste heart they seemed to me Types of far fairer flowers to be -- The rosebuds of a human tree!
Buds that shall bloom beside my hearth, And there be held of richer worth Than all the kingliest gems of earth.
Ah me! the pathos of the thought! I had not deemed she wanted aught; Yet what a tenderer charm it wrought!
I know not if she marked the flame That lit my cheek, but not from shame, When one sweet image dimly came.
There was a murmur soft and low; White folds of cambric, parted slow; And little fingers played with snow!
How far my fancy dared to stray, A lover's reverence needs not say -- Enough -- the vision passed away!
Passed in a mist of happy tears, While something in my tranc|\ed ears Hummed like the future in a seer's!
A Mother's Wail
My babe! my tiny babe! my only babe! My single rose-bud in a crown of thorns! My lamp that in that narrow hut of life, Whence I looked forth upon a night of storm! Burned with the lustre of the moon and stars!
My babe! my tiny babe! my only babe! Behold the bud is gone! the thorns remain! My lamp hath fallen from its niche -- ah, me! Earth drinks the fragrant flame, and I am left Forever and forever in the dark!
My babe! my babe! my own and only babe! Where art thou now? If somewhere in the sky An angel hold thee in his radiant arms, I challenge him to clasp thy tender form With half the fervor of a mother's love!
Forgive me, Lord! forgive my reckless grief! Forgive me that this rebel, selfish heart Would almost make me jealous for my child, Though thy own lap enthroned him. Lord, thou hast So many such! I have -- ah! had but one!
O yet once more, my babe, to hear thy cry! O yet once more, my babe, to see thy smile! O yet once more to feel against my breast Those cool, soft hands, that warm, wet, eager mouth, With the sweet sharpness of its budding pearls!
But it must never, never more be mine To mark the growing meaning in thine eyes, To watch thy soul unfolding leaf by leaf, Or catch, with ever fresh surprise and joy, Thy dawning recognitions of the world.
Three different shadows of thyself, my babe, Change with each other while I weep. The first, The sweetest, yet the not least fraught with pain, Clings like my living boy around my neck, Or purrs and murmurs softly at my feet!
Another
On a land where the faces are fair, though pale As a moonlit mist when the winds are still, She breaks like a morning in Paradise Through the palms of an orient hill.
Her beauty, perhaps, were all too bright, But about her there broods some delicate spell, Whence the wondrous charm of the girl grows soft As the light in an English dell.
There is not a story of faith and truth On the starry scroll of her country's fame, But has helped to shape her stately mien, And to touch her soul with flame.
I sometimes forget, as she sweeps me a bow, That I gaze on a simple English maid, And I bend my head, as if to a queen Who is courting my lance and blade.
Once, as we read, in a curtained niche, A poet who sang of her sea-throned isle, There was something of Albion's mighty Bess In the flash of her haughty smile.
She seemed to gather from every age All the greatness of England about her there, And my fancy wove a royal crown Of the dusky gold of her hair.
But it was no queen to whom that day, In the dim green shade of a trellised vine, I whispered a hope that had somewhat to do With a small white hand in mine.
The Tudor had vanished, and, as I spoke, 'T was herself looked out of her frank brown eye, And an answer was burning upon her face, Ere I caught the low reply.
What was it! Nothing the world need know -- The stars saw our parting! Enough, that then I walked from the porch with the tread of a king, And she was a queen again!
The Rosebuds
Yes, in that dainty ivory shrine, With those three pallid buds, I twine And fold away a dream divine!
One night they lay upon a breast Where Love hath made his fragrant nest, And throned me as a life-long guest.
Near that chaste heart they seemed to me Types of far fairer flowers to be -- The rosebuds of a human tree!
Buds that shall bloom beside my hearth, And there be held of richer worth Than all the kingliest gems of earth.
Ah me! the pathos of the thought! I had not deemed she wanted aught; Yet what a tenderer charm it wrought!
I know not if she marked the flame That lit my cheek, but not from shame, When one sweet image dimly came.
There was a murmur soft and low; White folds of cambric, parted slow; And little fingers played with snow!
How far my fancy dared to stray, A lover's reverence needs not say -- Enough -- the vision passed away!
Passed in a mist of happy tears, While something in my tranc|\ed ears Hummed like the future in a seer's!
A Mother's Wail
My babe! my tiny babe! my only babe! My single rose-bud in a crown of thorns! My lamp that in that narrow hut of life, Whence I looked forth upon a night of storm! Burned with the lustre of the moon and stars!
My babe! my tiny babe! my only babe! Behold the bud is gone! the thorns remain! My lamp hath fallen from its niche -- ah, me! Earth drinks the fragrant flame, and I am left Forever and forever in the dark!
My babe! my babe! my own and only babe! Where art thou now? If somewhere in the sky An angel hold thee in his radiant arms, I challenge him to clasp thy tender form With half the fervor of a mother's love!
Forgive me, Lord! forgive my reckless grief! Forgive me that this rebel, selfish heart Would almost make me jealous for my child, Though thy own lap enthroned him. Lord, thou hast So many such! I have -- ah! had but one!
O yet once more, my babe, to hear thy cry! O yet once more, my babe, to see thy smile! O yet once more to feel against my breast Those cool, soft hands, that warm, wet, eager mouth, With the sweet sharpness of its budding pearls!
But it must never, never more be mine To mark the growing meaning in thine eyes, To watch thy soul unfolding leaf by leaf, Or catch, with ever fresh surprise and joy, Thy dawning recognitions of the world.
Three different shadows of thyself, my babe, Change with each other while I weep. The first, The sweetest, yet the not least fraught with pain, Clings like my living boy around my neck, Or purrs and murmurs softly at my feet!
Another