Poems of Henry Timrod [31]
unsaid -- pure must he be; Oh, bless|"ed are the pure! for they shall hear Where others hear not, see where others see With a dazed vision: who have drawn most near My shrine, have ever brought a spirit cased And mail|"ed in a body clean and chaste.
LV
"The Poet to the whole wide world belongs, Even as the teacher is the child's -- I said No selfish aim should ever mar his songs, But self wears many guises; men may wed Self in another, and the soul may be Self to its centre, all unconsciously.
LVI
"And therefore must the Poet watch, lest he, In the dark struggle of this life, should take Stains which he might not notice; he must flee Falsehood, however winsome, and forsake All for the Truth, assured that Truth alone Is Beauty, and can make him all my own.
LVII
"And he must be as arm|"ed warrior strong, And he must be as gentle as a girl, And he must front, and sometimes suffer wrong, With brow unbent, and lip untaught to curl; For wrath, and scorn, and pride, however just, Fill the clear spirit's eyes with earthly dust."
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The story came to me -- it recks not whence -- In fragments. Oh! if I could tell it all, If human speech indeed could tell it all, 'T were not a whit less wondrous, than if I Should find, untouched in leaf and stem, and bright, As when it bloomed three thousand years ago, On some Idalian slope, a perfect rose. Alas! a leaf or two, and they perchance Scarce worth the hiving, one or two dead leaves Are the sole harvest of a summer's toil. There was a moment, ne'er to be recalled, When to the Poet's hope within my heart, They wore a tint like life's, but in my hand, I know not why, they withered. I have heard Somewhere, of some dead monarch, from the tomb, Where he had slept a century and more, Brought forth, that when the coffin was laid bare, Albeit the body in its mouldering robes Was fleshless, yet one feature still remained Perfect, or perfect seemed at least; the eyes Gleamed for a second on the startled crowd, And then went out in ashes. Even thus The story, when I drew it from the grave Where it had lain so long, did seem, I thought, Not wholly lifeless; but even while I gazed To fix its features on my heart, and called The world to wonder with me, lo! it proved I looked upon a corpse! What further fell In that lone forest nook, how much was taught, How much was only hinted, what the youth Promised, if promise were required, to do Or strive for, what the gifts he bore away -- Or added powers or blessings -- how at last, The vision ended and he sought his home, How lived there, and how long, and when he passed Into the busy world to seek his fate, I know not, and if any ever knew, The tale hath perished from the earth; for here The slender thread on which my song is strung Breaks off, and many after years of life Are lost to sight, the life to reappear Only towards its close -- as of a dream We catch the end and opening, but forget That which had joined them in the dreaming brain; Or as a mountain with a belt of mist That shows his base, and far above, a peak With a blue plume of pines. But turn the page And read the only hints that yet remain.
Part II
I
It is not winter yet, but that sweet time In autumn when the first cool days are past; A week ago, the leaves were hoar with rime, And some have dropped before the North wind's blast; But the mild hours are back, and at mid-noon, The day hath all the genial warmth of June.
II
What slender form lies stretched along the mound? Can it be his, the Wanderer's, with that brow Gray in its prime, those eyes that wander round Listlessly, with a jaded glance that now Seems to see nothing where it rests, and then Pores on each trivial object in its ken?
III
See how a gentle maid's wan fingers clasp The last fond love-notes of some faithless hand; Thus, with a transient interest, his weak grasp Holds a few leaves as when of old he scanned The meaning in their gold and crimson streaks; But the sweet dream
LV
"The Poet to the whole wide world belongs, Even as the teacher is the child's -- I said No selfish aim should ever mar his songs, But self wears many guises; men may wed Self in another, and the soul may be Self to its centre, all unconsciously.
LVI
"And therefore must the Poet watch, lest he, In the dark struggle of this life, should take Stains which he might not notice; he must flee Falsehood, however winsome, and forsake All for the Truth, assured that Truth alone Is Beauty, and can make him all my own.
LVII
"And he must be as arm|"ed warrior strong, And he must be as gentle as a girl, And he must front, and sometimes suffer wrong, With brow unbent, and lip untaught to curl; For wrath, and scorn, and pride, however just, Fill the clear spirit's eyes with earthly dust."
--------
The story came to me -- it recks not whence -- In fragments. Oh! if I could tell it all, If human speech indeed could tell it all, 'T were not a whit less wondrous, than if I Should find, untouched in leaf and stem, and bright, As when it bloomed three thousand years ago, On some Idalian slope, a perfect rose. Alas! a leaf or two, and they perchance Scarce worth the hiving, one or two dead leaves Are the sole harvest of a summer's toil. There was a moment, ne'er to be recalled, When to the Poet's hope within my heart, They wore a tint like life's, but in my hand, I know not why, they withered. I have heard Somewhere, of some dead monarch, from the tomb, Where he had slept a century and more, Brought forth, that when the coffin was laid bare, Albeit the body in its mouldering robes Was fleshless, yet one feature still remained Perfect, or perfect seemed at least; the eyes Gleamed for a second on the startled crowd, And then went out in ashes. Even thus The story, when I drew it from the grave Where it had lain so long, did seem, I thought, Not wholly lifeless; but even while I gazed To fix its features on my heart, and called The world to wonder with me, lo! it proved I looked upon a corpse! What further fell In that lone forest nook, how much was taught, How much was only hinted, what the youth Promised, if promise were required, to do Or strive for, what the gifts he bore away -- Or added powers or blessings -- how at last, The vision ended and he sought his home, How lived there, and how long, and when he passed Into the busy world to seek his fate, I know not, and if any ever knew, The tale hath perished from the earth; for here The slender thread on which my song is strung Breaks off, and many after years of life Are lost to sight, the life to reappear Only towards its close -- as of a dream We catch the end and opening, but forget That which had joined them in the dreaming brain; Or as a mountain with a belt of mist That shows his base, and far above, a peak With a blue plume of pines. But turn the page And read the only hints that yet remain.
Part II
I
It is not winter yet, but that sweet time In autumn when the first cool days are past; A week ago, the leaves were hoar with rime, And some have dropped before the North wind's blast; But the mild hours are back, and at mid-noon, The day hath all the genial warmth of June.
II
What slender form lies stretched along the mound? Can it be his, the Wanderer's, with that brow Gray in its prime, those eyes that wander round Listlessly, with a jaded glance that now Seems to see nothing where it rests, and then Pores on each trivial object in its ken?
III
See how a gentle maid's wan fingers clasp The last fond love-notes of some faithless hand; Thus, with a transient interest, his weak grasp Holds a few leaves as when of old he scanned The meaning in their gold and crimson streaks; But the sweet dream