Poems of Henry Timrod [30]
been, beneath a mightier Power, To keep the world forever fresh and young; I give it not its fruitage and its green, But clothe it with a glory all unseen.
XL
"I sow the germ which buds in human art, And, with my sister, Science, I explore With light the dark recesses of the heart, And nerve the will, and teach the wish to soar; I touch with grace the body's meanest clay, While noble souls are nobler for my sway.
XLI
"Before my power the kings of earth have bowed; I am the voice of Freedom, and the sword Leaps from its scabbard when I call aloud; Wherever life in sacrifice is poured, Wherever martyrs die or patriots bleed, I weave the chaplet and award the meed.
XLII
"Where Passion stoops, or strays, is cold, or dead, I lift from error, or to action thrill! Or if it rage too madly in its bed, The tempest hushes at my `Peace! be still!' I know how far its tides should sink or swell, And they obey my sceptre and my spell.
XLIII
"All lovely things, and gentle -- the sweet laugh Of children, Girlhood's kiss, and Friendship's clasp, The boy that sporteth with the old man's staff, The baby, and the breast its fingers grasp -- All that exalts the grounds of happiness, All griefs that hallow, and all joys that bless,
XLIV
"To me are sacred; at my holy shrine Love breathes its latest dreams, its earliest hints; I turn life's tasteless waters into wine, And flush them through and through with purple tints. Wherever Earth is fair, and Heaven looks down, I rear my altars, and I wear my crown.
XLV
"I am the unseen spirit thou hast sought, I woke those shadowy questionings that vex Thy young mind, lost in its own cloud of thought, And rouse the soul they trouble and perplex; I filled thy days with visions, and thy nights Blessed with all sweetest sounds and fairy sights.
XLVI
"Not here, not in this world, may I disclose The mysteries in which this life is hearsed; Some doubts there be that, with some earthly woes, By Death alone shall wholly be dispersed; Yet on those very doubts from this low sod Thy soul shall pass beyond the stars to God.
XLVII
"And so to knowledge, climbing grade by grade, Thou shalt attain whatever mortals can, And what thou mayst discover by my aid Thou shalt translate unto thy brother man; And men shall bless the power that flings a ray Into their night from thy diviner day.
XLVIII
"For, from thy lofty height, thy words shall fall Upon their spirits like bright cataracts That front a sunrise; thou shalt hear them call Amid their endless waste of arid facts, As wearily they plod their way along, Upon the rhythmic zephyrs of thy song.
XLIX
"All this is in thy reach, but much depends Upon thyself -- thy future I await; I give the genius, point the proper ends, But the true bard is his own only Fate; Into thy soul my soul have I infused; Take care thy lofty powers be wisely used.
L
"The Poet owes a high and holy debt, Which, if he feel, he craves not to be heard For the poor boon of praise, or place, nor yet Does the mere joy of song, as with the bird Of many voices, prompt the choral lay That cheers that gentle pilgrim on his way.
LI
"Nor may he always sweep the passionate lyre, Which is his heart, only for such relief As an impatient spirit may desire, Lest, from the grave which hides a private grief, The spells of song call up some pallid wraith To blast or ban a mortal hope or faith.
LII
"Yet over his deep soul, with all its crowd Of varying hopes and fears, he still must brood; As from its azure height a tranquil cloud Watches its own bright changes in the flood; Self-reading, not self-loving -- they are twain -- And sounding, while he mourns, the depths of pain.
LIII
"Thus shall his songs attain the common breast, Dyed in his own life's blood, the sign and seal, Even as the thorns which are the martyr's crest, That do attest his office, and appeal Unto the universal human heart In sanction of his mission and his art.
LIV
"Much yet remains
XL
"I sow the germ which buds in human art, And, with my sister, Science, I explore With light the dark recesses of the heart, And nerve the will, and teach the wish to soar; I touch with grace the body's meanest clay, While noble souls are nobler for my sway.
XLI
"Before my power the kings of earth have bowed; I am the voice of Freedom, and the sword Leaps from its scabbard when I call aloud; Wherever life in sacrifice is poured, Wherever martyrs die or patriots bleed, I weave the chaplet and award the meed.
XLII
"Where Passion stoops, or strays, is cold, or dead, I lift from error, or to action thrill! Or if it rage too madly in its bed, The tempest hushes at my `Peace! be still!' I know how far its tides should sink or swell, And they obey my sceptre and my spell.
XLIII
"All lovely things, and gentle -- the sweet laugh Of children, Girlhood's kiss, and Friendship's clasp, The boy that sporteth with the old man's staff, The baby, and the breast its fingers grasp -- All that exalts the grounds of happiness, All griefs that hallow, and all joys that bless,
XLIV
"To me are sacred; at my holy shrine Love breathes its latest dreams, its earliest hints; I turn life's tasteless waters into wine, And flush them through and through with purple tints. Wherever Earth is fair, and Heaven looks down, I rear my altars, and I wear my crown.
XLV
"I am the unseen spirit thou hast sought, I woke those shadowy questionings that vex Thy young mind, lost in its own cloud of thought, And rouse the soul they trouble and perplex; I filled thy days with visions, and thy nights Blessed with all sweetest sounds and fairy sights.
XLVI
"Not here, not in this world, may I disclose The mysteries in which this life is hearsed; Some doubts there be that, with some earthly woes, By Death alone shall wholly be dispersed; Yet on those very doubts from this low sod Thy soul shall pass beyond the stars to God.
XLVII
"And so to knowledge, climbing grade by grade, Thou shalt attain whatever mortals can, And what thou mayst discover by my aid Thou shalt translate unto thy brother man; And men shall bless the power that flings a ray Into their night from thy diviner day.
XLVIII
"For, from thy lofty height, thy words shall fall Upon their spirits like bright cataracts That front a sunrise; thou shalt hear them call Amid their endless waste of arid facts, As wearily they plod their way along, Upon the rhythmic zephyrs of thy song.
XLIX
"All this is in thy reach, but much depends Upon thyself -- thy future I await; I give the genius, point the proper ends, But the true bard is his own only Fate; Into thy soul my soul have I infused; Take care thy lofty powers be wisely used.
L
"The Poet owes a high and holy debt, Which, if he feel, he craves not to be heard For the poor boon of praise, or place, nor yet Does the mere joy of song, as with the bird Of many voices, prompt the choral lay That cheers that gentle pilgrim on his way.
LI
"Nor may he always sweep the passionate lyre, Which is his heart, only for such relief As an impatient spirit may desire, Lest, from the grave which hides a private grief, The spells of song call up some pallid wraith To blast or ban a mortal hope or faith.
LII
"Yet over his deep soul, with all its crowd Of varying hopes and fears, he still must brood; As from its azure height a tranquil cloud Watches its own bright changes in the flood; Self-reading, not self-loving -- they are twain -- And sounding, while he mourns, the depths of pain.
LIII
"Thus shall his songs attain the common breast, Dyed in his own life's blood, the sign and seal, Even as the thorns which are the martyr's crest, That do attest his office, and appeal Unto the universal human heart In sanction of his mission and his art.
LIV
"Much yet remains