  1829=1867. University of State of Missouri, Columbia, Mo. Henry Timrod was born in Charleston, the son of William Henry Timrod, who was himself a poet, and who in his youth voluntarily apprenticed himself to a book-binder in order to have plenty of books to read. His son Henry, His vacations were spent in Charleston, where he was one of the coterie of young writers whom William Gilmore Simms, like a literary Nestor, gathered about him in his hospitable home. His schoolmate, Paul Hamilton Hayne, was one of these, and their early friendship grew stronger with the passing years. In 1860, Timrod removed to Columbia, published a volume of poems which were well received North and South, and undertook editorial work. Life seemed fair before him. But ill-health and the war which destroyed his property and blighted his career, soon darkened all his prospects, and after a brave struggle with poverty and sickness, he died of pneumonia. His poems are singularly free from sadness and bitterness. They have been collected and published with a sketch of his life by his friend, Paul Hamilton Hayne. WORKS.Poems. Of all our poets none stands higher than Henry Timrod. His singing is true and musical, and his thoughts are pure and noble. A tardy recognition seems at last coming to bless his memory, and his poems are in demand. One copy of his little volume recently commanded the price of ten dollars. SONNET.Life ever seems as from its present site It aimed to lure us. Mountains of the past It melts, with all their crags and caverns vast, Into a purple cloud! Across the night Which hides what is to be, it shoots a light All rosy with the yet unrisen dawn. Not the near daisies, but yon distant height Attracts us, lying on this emerald lawn. And always, be the landscape what it may— Blue, misty hill, or sweep of glimmering plain— It is the eye’s endeavor still to gain The fine, faint limit of the bounding day. God, haply, in this mystic mode, would fain Hint of a happier home, far, far away! ENGLISH KATIE.(From Katie.) It may be through some foreign grace, And unfamiliar charm of face; It may be that across the foam Which bore her from her childhood’s home By some strange spell, my Katie brought, Along with English creeds and thought— Entangled in her golden hair— Some English sunshine, warmth, and air! I cannot tell,—but here to-day, A thousand billowy leagues away From that green isle whose twilight skies No darker are than Katie’s eyes, She seems to me, go where she will, An English girl in England still! I meet her on the dusty street, And daisies spring about her feet; Or, touched to life beneath her tread, An English cowslip lifts its head; And, as to do her grace, rise up The primrose and the buttercup! And seem to stroll an English lane, Which, white with blossoms of the May, Spreads its green carpet in her way! As fancy wills, the path beneath Is golden gorse, or purple heath: And now we hear in woodlands dim Their unarticulated hymn, Now walk through rippling waves of wheat, Now sink in mats of clover sweet, Or see before us from the lawn The lark go up to greet the dawn! All birds that love the English sky Throng round my path when she is by: The blackbird from a neighboring thorn With music brims the cup of morn, And in a thick, melodious rain The mavis pours her mellow strain! But only when my Katie’s voice Makes all the listening woods rejoice, I hear—with cheeks that flush and pale— The passion of the nightingale! HYMN SUNG AT THE CONSECRATION OF MAGNOLIA CEMETERY, CHARLESTON, S. C.Whose was the hand that painted thee, O Death! In the false aspect of a ruthless foe, Despair and sorrow waiting on thy breath,— O gentle Power! who could have wronged thee so? Thou rather should’st be crowned with fadeless flowers, Of lasting fragrance and celestial hue; Or be thy couch amid funereal bowers, But let the stars and sunlight sparkle through. So, with these thoughts before us, we have fixed And beautified, O Death! thy mansion here, Where gloom and gladness—grave and garden—mixed, Make it a place to love, and not to fear. Ye holy stars! look down with tender eyes, And gild and guard and consecrate the ground Where we may rest, and whence we pray to rise. FOOTNOTE: |
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