Poems of Henry Timrod [5]
the war that had broken all his plans, and wrecked his health and hopes, and made literature for a time in the South a beggar's vocation, left him with wife and child, the "darling Willie" of his verse, dependent upon his already sapped and fast failing strength for support. Here he saw the capital of his native State, marked for vengeance, pitilessly destroyed by fire and sword. Here gaunt ruin stalked and want entered his own home, made desolate as all the hearthstones of his people. Here the peace that ensued was the peace of the desert! Here the army, defeated and broken, came back after the long heroic struggle to blackened chimneys, sole vestige of home, and the South, with not even bread for her famished children, still stood in solemn silence by those deeper furrows watered with blood. The suffering that he endured was the common suffering of those around him, -- actual physical want and lack of the commonest comforts of life, felt most keenly by his sensitive nature and delicate constitution. In the midst of this fierce stress, his darling boy, the crown of his life, died. All his affections, it seemed, were poured out at once, as water spilled upon the ground. He was dying of consumption, and earth shadows crowded around him.
Though long in feeble health, his last illness was brief. The best physicians lovingly gave their skillful ministration, and the State's most eminent men, in their common need, tenderly cared for him and his. With death before him, he clung passionately to his art, absorbed in that alone and in the great Beyond. His latest occupation was correcting the proof-sheets of his own poems, and he passed away with them by his side, stained with his life-blood.
In the autumn of 1867 he was laid by his beloved child in Trinity churchyard, Columbia, S.C. General Hampton, Governor Thompson, and other great Carolinians bore him to the grave, -- a grave that, through the sackcloth of the Reconstruction period in South Carolina, remained without a stone. But as he himself wrote of the host of the Southern dead of the war, -- "In seeds of laurel in the earth The blossom of your fame is blown, And somewhere waiting for its birth, The shaft is in the stone."
In later years loving friends reared a small memorial shaft to mark his grave. It was in that dark period that Carl McKinley's genius was touched to these fine lines.
At Timrod's Grave. 1877.
Harp of the South! no more, no more Thy silvery strings shall quiver, The one strong hand might win thy strains Is chilled and stilled forever.
Our one sweet singer breaks no more The silence sad and long, The land is hushed from shore to shore, It brooks no feebler song!
No other voice can charm our ears, None other soothe our pain; Better these echoes lingering yet, Than any ruder strain.
For singing, Fate has given sighs, For music we make moan; Oh, who may touch the harp-strings since That whisper -- "HE IS GONE!"
See where he lies -- his last sad home Of all memorial bare, Save for a little heap of leaves The winds have gathered there!
One fair frail shell from some far sea Lies lone above his breast, Sad emblem and sole epitaph To mark his place of rest.
The sweet winds murmur in its heart A music soft and low, As they would bring their secrets still To him who sleeps below.
And lo! one tender, tearful bloom Wins upward through the grass, As some sweet thought he left unsung Were blossoming at last.
Wild weeds grow rank about the place, A dark, cold spot, and drear; The dull neglect that marked his life Has followed even here.
Around shine many a marble shaft And polished pillars fair, And strangers stand on Timrod's grave To praise them, unaware!
"Hold up the glories of thy dead!" To thine own self be true, Land that he loved! Come, honor now This grave that honors you!
The
Though long in feeble health, his last illness was brief. The best physicians lovingly gave their skillful ministration, and the State's most eminent men, in their common need, tenderly cared for him and his. With death before him, he clung passionately to his art, absorbed in that alone and in the great Beyond. His latest occupation was correcting the proof-sheets of his own poems, and he passed away with them by his side, stained with his life-blood.
In the autumn of 1867 he was laid by his beloved child in Trinity churchyard, Columbia, S.C. General Hampton, Governor Thompson, and other great Carolinians bore him to the grave, -- a grave that, through the sackcloth of the Reconstruction period in South Carolina, remained without a stone. But as he himself wrote of the host of the Southern dead of the war, -- "In seeds of laurel in the earth The blossom of your fame is blown, And somewhere waiting for its birth, The shaft is in the stone."
In later years loving friends reared a small memorial shaft to mark his grave. It was in that dark period that Carl McKinley's genius was touched to these fine lines.
At Timrod's Grave. 1877.
Harp of the South! no more, no more Thy silvery strings shall quiver, The one strong hand might win thy strains Is chilled and stilled forever.
Our one sweet singer breaks no more The silence sad and long, The land is hushed from shore to shore, It brooks no feebler song!
No other voice can charm our ears, None other soothe our pain; Better these echoes lingering yet, Than any ruder strain.
For singing, Fate has given sighs, For music we make moan; Oh, who may touch the harp-strings since That whisper -- "HE IS GONE!"
See where he lies -- his last sad home Of all memorial bare, Save for a little heap of leaves The winds have gathered there!
One fair frail shell from some far sea Lies lone above his breast, Sad emblem and sole epitaph To mark his place of rest.
The sweet winds murmur in its heart A music soft and low, As they would bring their secrets still To him who sleeps below.
And lo! one tender, tearful bloom Wins upward through the grass, As some sweet thought he left unsung Were blossoming at last.
Wild weeds grow rank about the place, A dark, cold spot, and drear; The dull neglect that marked his life Has followed even here.
Around shine many a marble shaft And polished pillars fair, And strangers stand on Timrod's grave To praise them, unaware!
"Hold up the glories of thy dead!" To thine own self be true, Land that he loved! Come, honor now This grave that honors you!
The