Poems of Henry Timrod [39]
Bridal. Written in Illustration of a Tableau Vivant
Is she not lovely! Oh! when, long ago, My own dead mother gazed upon my face, As I stood blushing near in bridal snow, I had not half her beauty and her grace.
Yet that fond mother praised, the world caressed, And ONE adored me -- how shall HE who soon Shall wear my gentle flower upon his breast, Prize to its utmost worth the priceless boon?
Shall he not gird her, guard her, make her rich, (Not as the world is rich, in outward show,) With all the love and watchful kindness which A wise and tender manhood may bestow?
Oh! I shall part from her with many tears, My earthly treasure, pure and undefiled! And not without a weight of anxious fears For the new future of my darling child.
And yet -- for well I know that virgin heart -- No wifely duty will she leave undone; Nor will her love neglect that woman's art Which courts and keeps a love already won.
In no light girlish levity she goes Unto the altar where they wait her now, But with a thoughtful, prayerful heart that knows The solemn purport of a marriage vow.
And she will keep, with all her soul's deep truth, The lightest pledge which binds her love and life; And she will be -- no less in age than youth My noble child will be -- a noble wife.
And he, her lover! husband! what of him? Yes, he will shield, I think, my bud from blight! Yet griefs will come -- enough! my eyes are dim With tears I must not shed -- at least, to-night.
Bless thee, my daughter! -- Oh! she is so fair! -- Heaven bend above thee with its starriest skies! And make thee truly all thou dost appear Unto a lover's and thy mother's eyes!
Hymn Sung at an Anniversary of the Asylum of Orphans at Charleston
We scarce, O God! could lisp thy name, When those who loved us passed away, And left us but thy love to claim, With but an infant's strength to pray.
Thou gav'st that Refuge and that Shrine, At which we learn to know thy ways; Father! the fatherless are thine! Thou wilt not spurn the orphan's praise.
Yet hear a single cry of pain! Lord! whilst we dream in quiet beds, The summer sun and winter rain Beat still on many homeless heads.
And o'er this weary earth, we know, Young outcasts roam the waste and wave; And little hands are clasped in woe Above some tender mother's grave.
Ye winds! keep every storm aloof, And kiss away the tears they weep! Ye skies, that make their only roof, Look gently on their houseless sleep!
And thou, O Friend and Father! find A home to shield their helpless youth! Dear hearts to love -- sweet ties to bind -- And guide and guard them in the truth!
To a Captive Owl
I should be dumb before thee, feathered sage! And gaze upon thy phiz with solemn awe, But for a most audacious wish to gauge The hoarded wisdom of thy learned craw.
Art thou, grave bird! so wondrous wise indeed? Speak freely, without fear of jest or gibe -- What is thy moral and religious creed? And what the metaphysics of thy tribe?
A Poet, curious in birds and brutes, I do not question thee in idle play; What is thy station? What are thy pursuits? Doubtless thou hast thy pleasures -- what are THEY?
Or is 't thy wont to muse and mouse at once, Entice thy prey with airs of meditation, And with the unvarying habits of a dunce, To dine in solemn depths of contemplation?
There may be much -- the world at least says so -- Behind that ponderous brow and thoughtful gaze; Yet such a great philosopher should know, It is by no means wise to think always.
And, Bird, despite thy meditative air, I hold thy stock of wit but paltry pelf -- Thou show'st that same grave aspect everywhere, And wouldst look thoughtful, stuffed, upon a shelf.
I grieve to be so plain, renown|"ed Bird -- Thy fame 's a flam, and thou an empty fowl; And what is more, upon a Poet's word I'd say as much, wert thou Minerva's owl.
So doff th' imposture of those heavy brows; They do not serve to hide thy instincts base -- And if thou must be sometimes munching MOUSE, Munch
Is she not lovely! Oh! when, long ago, My own dead mother gazed upon my face, As I stood blushing near in bridal snow, I had not half her beauty and her grace.
Yet that fond mother praised, the world caressed, And ONE adored me -- how shall HE who soon Shall wear my gentle flower upon his breast, Prize to its utmost worth the priceless boon?
Shall he not gird her, guard her, make her rich, (Not as the world is rich, in outward show,) With all the love and watchful kindness which A wise and tender manhood may bestow?
Oh! I shall part from her with many tears, My earthly treasure, pure and undefiled! And not without a weight of anxious fears For the new future of my darling child.
And yet -- for well I know that virgin heart -- No wifely duty will she leave undone; Nor will her love neglect that woman's art Which courts and keeps a love already won.
In no light girlish levity she goes Unto the altar where they wait her now, But with a thoughtful, prayerful heart that knows The solemn purport of a marriage vow.
And she will keep, with all her soul's deep truth, The lightest pledge which binds her love and life; And she will be -- no less in age than youth My noble child will be -- a noble wife.
And he, her lover! husband! what of him? Yes, he will shield, I think, my bud from blight! Yet griefs will come -- enough! my eyes are dim With tears I must not shed -- at least, to-night.
Bless thee, my daughter! -- Oh! she is so fair! -- Heaven bend above thee with its starriest skies! And make thee truly all thou dost appear Unto a lover's and thy mother's eyes!
Hymn Sung at an Anniversary of the Asylum of Orphans at Charleston
We scarce, O God! could lisp thy name, When those who loved us passed away, And left us but thy love to claim, With but an infant's strength to pray.
Thou gav'st that Refuge and that Shrine, At which we learn to know thy ways; Father! the fatherless are thine! Thou wilt not spurn the orphan's praise.
Yet hear a single cry of pain! Lord! whilst we dream in quiet beds, The summer sun and winter rain Beat still on many homeless heads.
And o'er this weary earth, we know, Young outcasts roam the waste and wave; And little hands are clasped in woe Above some tender mother's grave.
Ye winds! keep every storm aloof, And kiss away the tears they weep! Ye skies, that make their only roof, Look gently on their houseless sleep!
And thou, O Friend and Father! find A home to shield their helpless youth! Dear hearts to love -- sweet ties to bind -- And guide and guard them in the truth!
To a Captive Owl
I should be dumb before thee, feathered sage! And gaze upon thy phiz with solemn awe, But for a most audacious wish to gauge The hoarded wisdom of thy learned craw.
Art thou, grave bird! so wondrous wise indeed? Speak freely, without fear of jest or gibe -- What is thy moral and religious creed? And what the metaphysics of thy tribe?
A Poet, curious in birds and brutes, I do not question thee in idle play; What is thy station? What are thy pursuits? Doubtless thou hast thy pleasures -- what are THEY?
Or is 't thy wont to muse and mouse at once, Entice thy prey with airs of meditation, And with the unvarying habits of a dunce, To dine in solemn depths of contemplation?
There may be much -- the world at least says so -- Behind that ponderous brow and thoughtful gaze; Yet such a great philosopher should know, It is by no means wise to think always.
And, Bird, despite thy meditative air, I hold thy stock of wit but paltry pelf -- Thou show'st that same grave aspect everywhere, And wouldst look thoughtful, stuffed, upon a shelf.
I grieve to be so plain, renown|"ed Bird -- Thy fame 's a flam, and thou an empty fowl; And what is more, upon a Poet's word I'd say as much, wert thou Minerva's owl.
So doff th' imposture of those heavy brows; They do not serve to hide thy instincts base -- And if thou must be sometimes munching MOUSE, Munch