The people's journal. (Pickens, S.C.) 1891-1903, 1896-11-05
, unMD,,lAL 10 HENRY TINtROD
no Hest OF Southern Poets and II
Gcnh,s OF th, Highest Ordcr.'
liz, CALVERT llall in Womankind.

hundred aud ninety.ninc out ol every
housuul people who read tho heading
I this article.
A South CaroliniHn whom Richard
lenry Stoddard pronounced tho Dost
[ Southern poets, genius OF tho
iEhrst order, man Of tho lOvoliost
rpe Of manhood, whose brio[, SORROW
Al life GrokcS our love aud pity, ard |
toSc exquisite poetry commands tho |
UmiratiOn OF the most critical scholar |
~this, i'll brief, was Horny Timrod.
About four years ago sketch Of
tmrod by the present writer appear
II in Morthington's Magazine. 1t was
,Ec first cNtrndcd notice Of tho poct
HAT had ever appeared in any North
,rn magazine. But Worthingtun's WIS
i new venture; its circulation was, OF
course limited, and tho article at:raGt-
ru little attention, though ono discern
ing reader in Grinncll. Iowa. did write
10 nc asking where he might procure
copy ol Timrod's poems. y friend Of
mln", Wellesley girl, told mo tho
io.owlng incident which illustrates
tho singular oOscurity that has always
$h"oudcU Timrod's name and fame
One day in Prof. Katherine Lee
Bates literature class the topic was
Southern poets. Lanicr and Haync
were discussed, and finally my friend
mentioned HCnry Timrod.
"TlmroU Ti!nrod said Miss Bates,
LauEhingiy what AL outlandiSh name
for poet. Why. | never heard Of a
Southern poet named Timrod. What
has he written, Miss AZ"
II cant recall anything more beauti-
ful than his ode to Spring.'' respond
ep the champion of Southern literature
There WAS burst Of laughter at this
huckncyed theme. but Miss a. stood
her grOu"6. ana WHOM IT," noise had
suOsldCd she r,prAtuI M. -. nir'~
lines Of one Of Timrod's most beautlfu.
poems.
Spring. with that namelcss pathos III the
That dwells in all things fair,
Spring with her golden suns and silver
rain.
Is with us once again.
Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns
Its fragrant lamps and turns
Into royal Court with green festoons
The banks oi dark lagoons.
IN the deep heart OF every forest tree,
The blood is all aslee
| And there's Il look about the leafess
bowers
| AS if they dreamed OF flowers
Miss Bates expressed her approval
| OF this selection, but still seemed to
| look on "a poet by the name of Tim
rod as sort Of myth Of the Southern
imagination. When the Worthington
article appeared, some time later Miss
a. sent Il copy to Prof. Bates and in
reply the latter wrote
II have read the sketch of Timrod
with surprise and delight, and | am
| thinking Of ordering copy of the
poems for the Wellesley library. Could
| you ask more :"
| hope the thought was CARRIED into
! action and that all future Wellesley
students will Know the poet who be-
longs not to the South alone, but to the
worlds o! letters everywhere. In my
portfolio Is Il spray Of myrtle from
IllnrOd'S grave IN the cemetery at
Columbia, South Carolina. a stone
marks the SPOT, a stone neither so
large nor so costly" as those hoped to
make it who erected it many years
ago. 1t is now proposed to replace
the stone by monument whose size
and beauty shall fifty commemorate
the dead poet.
For those to whom TimrOd is only
name quote the following poem which
illustrates the purity, grace and ten.
dcrncSS which charactcriZcs all his
work. 1t is called
THE ROSEBUDS
Yes, in that dainty ivory shrine
With those three pallid buds ,wiuc,
And fold away 4 dream divine !!
One night they lay upon q breast
Where Love had made his fragrant nest,
And throneu Ihc as lifelong guest.
Near that chaste heart they seemed to me
Types OF far tai, cr flowers to he
The roscbuds Of a human tree!
Buds that shall bloom beside my birth.
And there be held OF richer worth
Than all the kingli tst gems OF earth.
All me, The pathos OF the thou2ht!
had not deemed she wanted aught;
\ ct what Il tcndcrcr charm it wrought
know not il she marked the flame
That lit my cheek, but not from shame,
When one sweet image dimiy came.
There WAS murmur soft and low;
White folds Of muslin parted slow:
And tiny fingers played with snow
How far my fancy dared to stray,
lovers reverence need not say
Enough--thc vision passed away!
Passed in n mist Of happy tears.
While something in my tranccd ears
Ilummcd like the future IN q secrs!
AS a writer OF sonnets Timrod has no
no superior Ono beautiful contral
thought expressed in flawless language
with exquisite imagery, makes his SON.
nets striking contrast to tho cloudy,
wor1y labyrinths Of tortured rhymes
that some modern poets are perpetrat-
ing in the name Of one OF the nOblcst
forms Of poetry. Here is one of the
best, one which Crandall included in
his valuable collection, Representa-
tive Sonnets by American Poets :"
Most men know love but rs part Of
life;
Then hide it in some corner of the breast,
Even from themselves; and only when
they rest
In the brief pnuscs Of that daily strife,
WhcrcwltE the world might else be not so
rife,
They draw it forth Gas one draws forth n
toy
To soothc some ardent kiss-cxacting boy)
And hold it up to sister, child or wife.
All me! Why may not love and life be
one?