I ponder in the solemn gloom,
And tremble at some coming doom,
I feel Temptation stealing nigh,
While Sin and Sorrow hover by,
When thou art near, when thou art near!
Return and save, O save me, dear!
Thou knowest I am weak, indeed,
And how thy helping hand I need,
See how the shadows gather near,
And beckon thee to leave me, dear!
O come to me, refuse me not!
Then I may bless my hapless lot
When thou art near,
When thou art near!
We ride through forests ever cool and green,
Where giant live-oaks join their boughs above,
All knit together by a thousand vines,
The trumpet-flower, with its blazing blooms,
Whose martial music flashes into flame,
The brier, bramble, and the poison oak,
Like scaly serpents thrusting forth their fangs,
While spiders, like the Sirens long ago,
Spread silken snares bedecked with dazzling dew
To tangle in the feet of foolish flies;
Through treacherous fens, by knotted cypress knees,
Above the black mould, ever dank and cold,
Burst through by lushy clumps of whitened sprouts,
Where lies concealed the deadly rattlesnake;
By greenly-mantled ponds, made beautiful
With multitudes of water lilies white.
And then a blue lake shimmers in the sun
Or quivers in the gloomy cypress shades;
A gorgeous wild duck floats upon the waves
With plumage polished like a coat of mail;
The snakes are twisted on the rotten limbs
Of dead trees that have fallen in the lake.
On yonder logs, the turtles in a line
Are drying broad backs in the burning sun;
The blue jay, like a noisy trooper, calls,
The red-bird flutters like a flower of flame;
The gaunt gar, like a Turkish scimitar,
Leaps from the lake, and circling sinks from sight.
AN AUTUMN MORNING
A rich October morning calm and still,
When saddened skies hang in a dreamy haze.
The red and yellow leaves dance in the light,
Arraying every hill in regal robes.
The flocks of squirrels gather ripening nuts,
The luscious wild grapes in blue clusters cling,
And bright woodpeckers whisk amid the leaves.
The dry broom-sedge grows over wasted fields,
Fringing red gullies and rough banks of clay;
Along the highway and the meadows brown
The golden-rod and asters are ablaze.
Here stands a planter's house amid his farms
Of snowy cotton and of golden corn,
Specked here and there by low-roofed negro huts,
Whose dusky denizens in fleecy fields
Sing with a sweet, mysterious melody
The songs of Salem in this western world
With all the fervor of its ancient bards.
Far, far above, amid the dreamy skies
The buzzard glides on still and stately wings,
While birds of passage, in a bending line
Fly from the far north to the southern seas.
I see a ghostly ruin of the past,
And tread its cedar-bordered avenues.
Around its porticoes the pillars tall
Stand like a row of trusty sentinels
Guarding the glories of a perished race
Amid its desolation and decay;
A few tall roses and magnolias stand
Around a fountain choked with water-weeds.
See the great rooms, whose mirrored walls are crushed
And marble mantels now are overthrown.
My footsteps falling in the haunted halls,
Seem waking from the dead and dusty years
The far-off echoes of a hunter's horn
Blown by the master of a thousand slaves.
Amid the shadows of this archway old
I see a beauteous, high-born lady stand,
And hear the rustle of her silken gown;
Amid the broken mirrors on the walls
The softest brown eyes ever seen on earth
Shine on me from their dewy, dusky depths
With starry splendors of a tropic night.
My whisper, stealing through the ruined rooms,
Brings back the laughter of the yester-years,
And all the revels of a nuptial night,
Until the dead bride from her mossy tomb
Comes treading by me in her robes of white;
Amid the cobwebs on the ancient stair
I see the shimmer of her snowy veil,
The withered orange blossoms on her brow,
And then, her sweet face swiftly vanishing
Amid the glimmer of her golden hair.
A PORTRAIT OF HENRY TIMROD
Strange eyes gaze sadly from that weary face,
Beneath a brow that shows the seal of care;
Defeat and Disappointment leave their trace
Upon the youthful visage pictured there.
The same old story here is handed down—
The true-born poet and the same old doom— The bard who starves while rhymesters wear the crown, Who finds his throne, erected in a tomb.
Gone are the glories of your halcyon days,
Gone are the heroes whom you sung of yore;
Their banners in the skies no longer blaze,
Their fervent shouts are stilled forevermore.
No more their white steeds paw the bloody field,
No more their trumpets rouse the raptured soul,
No more their ranks in fiery fight are wheeled,
No more their drums like sullen thunders roll.
Yet as I view your old-time picture, all
The proud past blossoms, though your day has fled; Once more I hear your Stuart's battle-call,
And see your Stonewall rising from the dead.
I see their blazoned banners float like fire,
I hear their shouts sweep down the perished years; I hear once more the throbbing of your lyre, Ecstatic with a nation's hopes and fears.
And foes with friends now come to honor you,
O poet, free from blemish and from blame,
A wreath is yours as long as men are true,
As long as Courage wins the crown of Fame.
First published in The Bookman. Copyright, Dodd, Mead and Company, and used here by permission of the publishers.
When do I love thee? When the brooklets run
Through dandelion meadows of the June;
When horns of huntsmen greet the harvest moon,
And mellow Autumn's vintaging is done;
When Spring's triumphant marches have begun,
When Winter winds through haggard branches croon:
At solemn midnight and at silvery noon,
At blush of morning and at set of sun.
Thy youthful splendor unto me is dear,
But I shall love thee still when youth flits by;
I love thee when thine eyes know not a tear,
And love thee when Disaster hovers nigh;
My soul shall crave thee when the Dark draws near,
And still be loyal through eternity.
How do I love thee? As the slender lyre
Trills with emotion when the breezes blow;
As roses love the morning's golden glow
As dewy stars the dusky night desire;
As eagles to the heaven of heavens aspire,
As doves dream fondly, breast to breast, below;
As arctic pines love everlasting snow,
As tropic palms love everlasting fire.
I love thee as the victor loves his wreath,
The peasant loves his cottage, free from strife;
I love thee as Mortality loves breath,
The shepherd boy his harp and flute and fife;
As disappointed Hope loves welcome Death,
As human souls love Everlasting Life.
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