Poems of Henry Timrod [45]
pledge, And Charity that whets a poniard's edge; Fair schemes that leave the neighboring poor To starve and shiver at the schemer's door, While in the world's most liberal ranks enrolled, He turns some vast philanthropy to gold; Religion, taking every mortal form But that a pure and Christian faith makes warm, Where not to vile fanatic passion urged, Or not in vague philosophies submerged, Repulsive with all Pharisaic leaven, And making laws to stay the laws of Heaven! And on the other, scorn of sordid gain, Unblemished honor, truth without a stain, Faith, justice, reverence, charitable wealth, And, for the poor and humble, laws which give, Not the mean right to buy the right to live, But life, and home, and health! To doubt the end were want of trust in God, Who, if he has decreed That we must pass a redder sea Than that which rang to Miriam's holy glee, Will surely raise at need A Moses with his rod!
IV
But let our fears -- if fears we have -- be still, And turn us to the future! Could we climb Some mighty Alp, and view the coming time, The rapturous sight would fill Our eyes with happy tears! Not only for the glories which the years Shall bring us; not for lands from sea to sea, And wealth, and power, and peace, though these shall be; But for the distant peoples we shall bless, And the hushed murmurs of a world's distress: For, to give labor to the poor, The whole sad planet o'er, And save from want and crime the humblest door, Is one among the many ends for which God makes us great and rich! The hour perchance is not yet wholly ripe When all shall own it, but the type Whereby we shall be known in every land Is that vast gulf which lips our Southern strand, And through the cold, untempered ocean pours Its genial streams, that far off Arctic shores May sometimes catch upon the softened breeze Strange tropic warmth and hints of summer seas.
Carmen Triumphale
Go forth and bid the land rejoice, Yet not too gladly, O my song! Breathe softly, as if mirth would wrong The solemn rapture of thy voice.
Be nothing lightly done or said This happy day! Our joy should flow Accordant with the lofty woe That wails above the noble dead.
Let him whose brow and breast were calm While yet the battle lay with God, Look down upon the crimson sod And gravely wear his mournful palm;
And him, whose heart still weak from fear Beats all too gayly for the time, Know that intemperate glee is crime While one dead hero claims a tear.
Yet go thou forth, my song! and thrill, With sober joy, the troubled days; A nation's hymn of grateful praise May not be hushed for private ill.
Our foes are fallen! Flash, ye wires! The mighty tidings far and nigh! Ye cities! write them on the sky In purple and in emerald fires!
They came with many a haughty boast; Their threats were heard on every breeze; They darkened half the neighboring seas; And swooped like vultures on the coast.
False recreants in all knightly strife, Their way was wet with woman's tears; Behind them flamed the toil of years, And bloodshed stained the sheaves of life.
They fought as tyrants fight, or slaves; God gave the dastards to our hands; Their bones are bleaching on the sands, Or mouldering slow in shallow graves.
What though we hear about our path The heavens with howls of vengeance rent? The venom of their hate is spent; We need not heed their fangless wrath.
Meantime the stream they strove to chain Now drinks a thousand springs, and sweeps With broadening breast, and mightier deeps, And rushes onward to the main;
While down the swelling current glides Our Ship of State before the blast, With streamers poured from every mast, Her thunders roaring from her sides.
Lord! bid the frenzied tempest cease, Hang out thy rainbow on the sea! Laugh round her, waves! in silver glee, And speed her to the port of peace!
The Unknown Dead
The rain is plashing on my sill, But all the winds of Heaven are still; And so it falls with that dull sound Which thrills us in the
IV
But let our fears -- if fears we have -- be still, And turn us to the future! Could we climb Some mighty Alp, and view the coming time, The rapturous sight would fill Our eyes with happy tears! Not only for the glories which the years Shall bring us; not for lands from sea to sea, And wealth, and power, and peace, though these shall be; But for the distant peoples we shall bless, And the hushed murmurs of a world's distress: For, to give labor to the poor, The whole sad planet o'er, And save from want and crime the humblest door, Is one among the many ends for which God makes us great and rich! The hour perchance is not yet wholly ripe When all shall own it, but the type Whereby we shall be known in every land Is that vast gulf which lips our Southern strand, And through the cold, untempered ocean pours Its genial streams, that far off Arctic shores May sometimes catch upon the softened breeze Strange tropic warmth and hints of summer seas.
Carmen Triumphale
Go forth and bid the land rejoice, Yet not too gladly, O my song! Breathe softly, as if mirth would wrong The solemn rapture of thy voice.
Be nothing lightly done or said This happy day! Our joy should flow Accordant with the lofty woe That wails above the noble dead.
Let him whose brow and breast were calm While yet the battle lay with God, Look down upon the crimson sod And gravely wear his mournful palm;
And him, whose heart still weak from fear Beats all too gayly for the time, Know that intemperate glee is crime While one dead hero claims a tear.
Yet go thou forth, my song! and thrill, With sober joy, the troubled days; A nation's hymn of grateful praise May not be hushed for private ill.
Our foes are fallen! Flash, ye wires! The mighty tidings far and nigh! Ye cities! write them on the sky In purple and in emerald fires!
They came with many a haughty boast; Their threats were heard on every breeze; They darkened half the neighboring seas; And swooped like vultures on the coast.
False recreants in all knightly strife, Their way was wet with woman's tears; Behind them flamed the toil of years, And bloodshed stained the sheaves of life.
They fought as tyrants fight, or slaves; God gave the dastards to our hands; Their bones are bleaching on the sands, Or mouldering slow in shallow graves.
What though we hear about our path The heavens with howls of vengeance rent? The venom of their hate is spent; We need not heed their fangless wrath.
Meantime the stream they strove to chain Now drinks a thousand springs, and sweeps With broadening breast, and mightier deeps, And rushes onward to the main;
While down the swelling current glides Our Ship of State before the blast, With streamers poured from every mast, Her thunders roaring from her sides.
Lord! bid the frenzied tempest cease, Hang out thy rainbow on the sea! Laugh round her, waves! in silver glee, And speed her to the port of peace!
The Unknown Dead
The rain is plashing on my sill, But all the winds of Heaven are still; And so it falls with that dull sound Which thrills us in the