 | War poets of the South and Confederate camp-fire songs. |  |
HENRY TIMROD.
Was born in Charleston, S. C., in 1829. A volume of his
poems appeared in 1860, published in Boston. These poems
were re-published, with additions, and a beautiful memoir of the
poet, by his life-time friend, Paul H. Hayne, His tender and
lovely poem, "Kate," was published a few years ago, in elegant
style, by a Philadelphia publishing house. Timrod died at
Columbia, S. C., in 1867, and was buried in Trinity Church
cemetery. Poverty, disappointments, and sickness, severely
tried and darkened the life of this gentle and true poet.
A CRY TO ARMS.
Ho! woodsmen of the mountain-side!
Ho! dwellers in the vales!
Ho! ye who by the chafing tide
Have roughened in the gales!
Leave barn and byre, leave kin and cot,
Lay by the bloodless spade;
Let desk, and case, and counter rot,
And burn your books of trade.
Ho! dwellers in the vales!
Ho! ye who by the chafing tide
Have roughened in the gales!
Leave barn and byre, leave kin and cot,
Lay by the bloodless spade;
Let desk, and case, and counter rot,
And burn your books of trade.
The despot roves your fairest lands;
And till he flies or fears,
Your fields must grow but armed bands,
Your sheaves be sheaves of spears!
Give up to mildew and the rust
The useless tools of gain;
And feed your country's sacred dust
With floods of crimson rain!
And till he flies or fears,
Your fields must grow but armed bands,
Your sheaves be sheaves of spears!
Give up to mildew and the rust
The useless tools of gain;
And feed your country's sacred dust
With floods of crimson rain!
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Come, with the weapons at your call—
With musket, pike, or knife;
He wields the deadliest blade of all
Who lightest holds his life.
The arm that drives its unbought blows
With all a patriot's scorn,
Might brain a tyrant with a rose,
Or stab him with a thorn.
With musket, pike, or knife;
He wields the deadliest blade of all
Who lightest holds his life.
The arm that drives its unbought blows
With all a patriot's scorn,
Might brain a tyrant with a rose,
Or stab him with a thorn.
Does any falter? let him turn
To some brave maiden's eyes,
And catch the holy fires that burn
In those sublunar skies.
Oh! could you like your women feel,
And in their spirit march,
A day might see your lines of steel
Beneath the victor's arch.
To some brave maiden's eyes,
And catch the holy fires that burn
In those sublunar skies.
Oh! could you like your women feel,
And in their spirit march,
A day might see your lines of steel
Beneath the victor's arch.
What hope, O God! would not grow warm
When thoughts like these give cheer?
The lily calmly braves the storm,
And shall the palm-tree fear?
Nay! rather let its branches court
The rack that sweeps the plain;
And from the lily's regal port
Learn how to breast the strain!
When thoughts like these give cheer?
The lily calmly braves the storm,
And shall the palm-tree fear?
Nay! rather let its branches court
The rack that sweeps the plain;
And from the lily's regal port
Learn how to breast the strain!
129
Ho! woodsmen of the mountain-side!
Ho! dwellers in the vales!
Ho! ye who by the roaring tide
Have roughened in the gales!
Come! flocking gayly to the fight
From forest, hill, and lake;
We battle for our country's right,
And for the lily's sake!
Ho! dwellers in the vales!
Ho! ye who by the roaring tide
Have roughened in the gales!
Come! flocking gayly to the fight
From forest, hill, and lake;
We battle for our country's right,
And for the lily's sake!
CHARLESTON.
Calm as that second summer which precedes
The first fall of the snow;
In the broad sunlight of heroic deeds,
The city bides the foe.
The first fall of the snow;
In the broad sunlight of heroic deeds,
The city bides the foe.
And yet, behind their ramparts, stern and proud,
Her bolted thunders sleep—
Dark Sumter, like a battlemented cloud,
Looms o'er the solemn deep.
Her bolted thunders sleep—
Dark Sumter, like a battlemented cloud,
Looms o'er the solemn deep.
No Calpe frowns from lofty cliff or scaur
To guard the holy strand;
But Moultrie holds in leash her dogs of war,
Above the level sand;
To guard the holy strand;
But Moultrie holds in leash her dogs of war,
Above the level sand;
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And down the dunes a thousand guns lie couched,
Unseen, beside the flood—
Like tigers in some Orient jungle crouched,
That wait and watch for blood.
Unseen, beside the flood—
Like tigers in some Orient jungle crouched,
That wait and watch for blood.
Meanwhile, through streets still echoing with trade,
Walk grave and thoughtful men,
Whose hands may one day wield the patriot's blade
As lightly as the pen.
Walk grave and thoughtful men,
Whose hands may one day wield the patriot's blade
As lightly as the pen.
And maidens, with such eyes as would grow dim
Over a bleeding hound,
Seem each one to have caught the strength of him
Whose sword she sadly bound.
Over a bleeding hound,
Seem each one to have caught the strength of him
Whose sword she sadly bound.
Thus girt without and garrisoned at home,
Day patient following day,
Old Charleston looks from roof, and spire, and dome,
Across her tranquil bay.
Day patient following day,
Old Charleston looks from roof, and spire, and dome,
Across her tranquil bay.
Ships, through a hundred foes, from Saxon lands
And spicy Indian ports,
Bring Saxon steel and iron to her hands,
And summer to her courts.
And spicy Indian ports,
Bring Saxon steel and iron to her hands,
And summer to her courts.
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But still, along yon dim Atlantic line,
The only hostile smoke
Creeps like a harmless mist above the brine,
From some frail, floating oak.
The only hostile smoke
Creeps like a harmless mist above the brine,
From some frail, floating oak.
Shall the spring dawn, and she still clad in smiles
And with an unscathed brow,
Rest in the strong arms of her palm-crowned isles,
As fair and free as now?
And with an unscathed brow,
Rest in the strong arms of her palm-crowned isles,
As fair and free as now?
We know not; in the temple of the Fates
God has inscribed her doom;
And, all untroubled in her faith, she waits
The triumph or the tomb.
God has inscribed her doom;
And, all untroubled in her faith, she waits
The triumph or the tomb.
THE UNKNOWN DEAD.
The rain is plashing on my sill,
But all the winds of heaven are still;
And so it falls with the dull sound,
Which thrills us in the church-yard ground,
When the first spade-full drops like lead
Upon the coffin of the dead.
But all the winds of heaven are still;
And so it falls with the dull sound,
Which thrills us in the church-yard ground,
When the first spade-full drops like lead
Upon the coffin of the dead.
132
Beyond my streaming window-pane,
I cannot see the neighboring vane,
Yet from its old familiar tower,
The bell comes, muffled, through the shower;
What strange and unexpected link
Of 'feeling touched has made me think—
While with a vacant soul and eye,
I watch the gray and stony sky—
Of nameless graves on battle-plains,
Washed by a single winter's rains;
Where, some beneath Virginian hills,
And some by green Atlantic rills,
Some by the waters of the West,
A myriad unknown heroes rest.
I cannot see the neighboring vane,
Yet from its old familiar tower,
The bell comes, muffled, through the shower;
What strange and unexpected link
Of 'feeling touched has made me think—
While with a vacant soul and eye,
I watch the gray and stony sky—
Of nameless graves on battle-plains,
Washed by a single winter's rains;
Where, some beneath Virginian hills,
And some by green Atlantic rills,
Some by the waters of the West,
A myriad unknown heroes rest.
Ah! not the chiefs who, dying, see
Their flags in front of victory,
Or at their life-blood's noble cost,
Pay for a battle nobly lost,
Claim for their monumental beds,
The bitterest tears a nation sheds;
Beneath yon lonely mound—the spot
By all save some fond few forgot—
Lie the true martyrs of the fight,
Which strikes for freedom and for right;
Their flags in front of victory,
Or at their life-blood's noble cost,
Pay for a battle nobly lost,
Claim for their monumental beds,
The bitterest tears a nation sheds;
Beneath yon lonely mound—the spot
By all save some fond few forgot—
Lie the true martyrs of the fight,
Which strikes for freedom and for right;
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Of them, their patriot zeal and pride,
The lofty faith that with them died,
No grateful page shall farther tell,
Than that so many bravely fell;
And we can only dimly guess
What worlds of all this world's distress,
What utter wo, despair and dearth,
Their fate has brought to many a hearth!
The lofty faith that with them died,
No grateful page shall farther tell,
Than that so many bravely fell;
And we can only dimly guess
What worlds of all this world's distress,
What utter wo, despair and dearth,
Their fate has brought to many a hearth!
Just such a sky as this should weep
Above them always where they sleep;
Yea, haply, at this very hour,
Their graves are like a lover's bower,
And Nature's self, with eyes unwet,
Oblivious of the crimson debt
To which she owes her April grace,
Laughs gayly o'er their burial-place.
Above them always where they sleep;
Yea, haply, at this very hour,
Their graves are like a lover's bower,
And Nature's self, with eyes unwet,
Oblivious of the crimson debt
To which she owes her April grace,
Laughs gayly o'er their burial-place.
| War poets of the South and Confederate camp-fire songs. | |