Poems of Henry Timrod with memoir and portrait

Take first a Cowslip, then an Asphodel,
A bridal Rose, some snowy Orange flowers;
A Lily next, and by its spotless bell
Place the bright Iris, darling of the showers;
Set gold Nasturtiums, Elder blooms between,
And Heart's-ease to the Orchis marry sweetly;
Then with red Pinks, and slips of Evergreen,
You will possess—all folded up discreetly—
In one bouquet, that none but you may know,
The name I love beyond all names below.

189

LINES

I stooped from star-bright regions, where
Thou canst not enter even in prayer;
And thought to light thy heart and hearth
With all the poesy of earth.

Oh, foolish hope! those mystic gleams
To thee were unsubstantial dreams;
The paltry world had made thee blind,
And shut thy heart and dulled thy mind.

I was a vassal at thy feet,
And cringed more meanly than was meet,
And since I dared not to be free,
Was scouted as a slave should be.

I gave thee all—my truth, my trust—
I bowed my spirit in the dust,
I put a crown upon thy brow,
And am its proper victim now.

190

A TRIFLE

I know not why, but ev'n to me
My songs seem sweet when read to thee.

Perhaps in this the pleasure lies—
I read my thoughts within thine eyes.

And so dare fancy that my art
May sink as deeply as thy heart.

Perhaps I love to make my words
Sing round thee like so many birds,

Or, maybe, they are only sweet
As they seem offerings at thy feet.

Or haply, Lily, when I speak,
I think, perchance, they touch thy cheek,

Or with a yet more precious bliss,
Die on thy red lips in a kiss.

Each reason here—I cannot tell—
Or all perhaps may solve the spell.

But if she watch when I am by,
Lily may deeper see than I.

191

LINES

I saw, or dreamed I saw, her sitting lone,
Her neck bent like a swan's, her brown eyes thrown
On some sweet poem—his, I think, who sings
Œnone, or the hapless Maud: no rings
Flashed from the dainty fingers, which held back
Her beautiful blonde hair. Ah! would these black
Locks of mine own were mingling with it now,
And these warm lips were pressed against her brow!
And, as she turned a page, methought I heard—
Hush! could it be?—a faintly murmured word,
It was so softly dwelt on—such a smile
Played on her brow and wreathed her lip the while
That my heart leaped to hear it, and a flame
Burned on my forehead—Sa'ra!—'t was my name.

192

SONNET

If I have graced no single song of mine
With thy sweet name, they all are full of thee;
Thou art my Muse, my “May,” my “Madeline:”
But “Julia”!—ah! that gentle name to me
Is something far too sacred for the throng
Of worldly listeners 'round me. Yet ev'n now
I weave a chaplet for thy sinless brow;—
Wilt thou not wear it? 'T is a fashionable song,—
I will not say of what,—but on it I
Have wreaked heart, mind, my love, my hopes of fame,
Yet after all it hath no nobler aim
Than thy dear praise. Ere many moons pass by,
When the lost gem is set, the crown complete,
I'll lay a poet's tribute at thy feet.

193

TO ROSA ---: ACROSTIC

I took a Rosebud from a certain bower,
And by its side placed an Orange flower,
Then with the Speedwell, blended the perfume
And the sweet beauty of an Apple-bloom,
And thus, 't is one of the loveliest feats,
Is spelled a gentle lady's name in sweets.

University of Virginia Library

POEMS NOW FIRST COLLECTED

SONG

COMPOSED FOR WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY, AND RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO THE OFFICERS AND MEMBERS OF THE WASHINGTON LIGHT INFANTRY OF CHARLESTON, FEBRUARY 22, 1859

A BOUQUET

LINES

A TRIFLE

LINES

SONNET

TO ROSA ---: ACROSTIC