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Poets of the South

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[Footnote 3: This appears to be Poe's indefinite and poetic way of saying
that the lady's beauty and grace brought him an uplifting sense of
happiness. After seeing her the first time, "He returned home in a dream,
with but one thought, one hope in life--to hear again the sweet and
gracious words that had made the desolate world so beautiful to him, and
filled his lonely heart with the oppression of a new joy."--Ingram's
_Edgar Allan Poe_, Vol. I, p. 32.]

[Footnote 4: Psyche was represented as so exquisitely beautiful that
mortals did not dare to love, but only to worship her. The poet could pay
no higher tribute to "Helen."]

[Footnote 5: This little poem--very beautiful in itself--illustrates
Poe's characteristics as a poet: it is indefinite, musical, and intense.]

[Footnote 6: This poem is a tribute to his wife, to whom his beautiful
devotion has already been spoken of. "I believe," says Mrs. Osgood, "she
was the only woman whom he ever truly loved; and this is evidenced by the
exquisite pathos of the little poem lately written, called 'Annabel Lee,'
of which she was the subject, and which is by far the most natural,
simple, tender, and touchingly beautiful of all his songs."]

[Footnote 7: This is Poe's poetic designation of America.]

[Footnote 8: "Virginia Clemm, born on the 13th of August, 1822, was still
a child when her handsome cousin Edgar revisited Baltimore after his
escapade at West Point. A more than cousinly affection, which gradually
grew in intensity, resulted from their frequent communion, and
ultimately, whilst one, at least, of the two cousins was but a child,
they were married."--Ingram's _Edgar Allan Poe_, Vol. I, p. 136.]

[Footnote 9: These were the angels, to whom "Annabel Lee" was akin in
sweet, gentle character. "A lady angelically beautiful in person, and not
less beautiful in spirit."--Captain Mayne Reid.]

[Footnote 10: This may be literally true. At all events, it is related
that he visited the tomb of "Helen"; and "when the autumnal rains fell,
and the winds wailed mournfully over the graves, he lingered longest, and
came away most regretfully."]

[Footnote 11: This admirable poem is an allegory. The "stately palace" is
a man who after a time loses his reason. With this fact in mind, the poem
becomes quite clear. The "banners yellow, glorious, golden" is the hair;
the "luminous windows" are the eyes; the "ruler of the realm" is reason;
"the fair palace door" is the mouth; and the "evil things" are the
madman's fantasies. The poem is found in _The Fall of the House of
Usher_.

Poe claimed that Longfellow's _Beleaguered City_ was an imitation of
_The Haunted Palace_. The former should be read in connection with
the latter. Though some resemblance may be discerned, Longfellow must be
acquitted of Poe's charge of plagiarism.]

[Footnote 12: This terrible lyric is also an allegory. The "theater" is
the world, and the "play" human life. The "mimes" are men, created in the
image of God, and are represented as the "mere puppets" of circumstance.
The "Phantom chased for evermore" is happiness; but for all, the end is
death and the grave.]

[Footnote 13: This poem was first published in the New York _Evening
Mirror_, January 29, 1845. "In our opinion," wrote the editor, N. P.
Willis, "it is the most effective single example of 'fugitive poetry'
ever published in this country; and unsurpassed in English poetry for
subtle conception, masterly ingenuity of versification, and consistent
sustaining of imaginative lift."

The story of _The Raven_ is given in prose by Poe in his
_Philosophy of Composition_, which contains the best analysis of its
structure: "A raven, having learned by rote the single word, 'Nevermore,'
and having escaped from the custody of its owner, is driven at midnight,
through the violence of a storm, to seek admission at a window from which
a light still gleams,--the chamber window of a student, occupied half in
poring over a volume, half in dreaming of a beloved mistress deceased.
The casement being thrown open at the fluttering of the bird's wings, the
bird itself perches on the most convenient seat out of the immediate
reach of the student, who, amused by the incident and the oddity of the
visitor's demeanor, demands of it, in jest and without looking for a
reply, its name. The raven addressed answers with its customary word,
'Nevermore'--a word which finds immediate echo in the melancholy heart
of the student, who, giving utterance aloud to certain thoughts suggested
by the occasion, is again startled by the fowl's repetition of
'Nevermore.' The student now guesses the state of the case, but is
impelled, by the human thirst for self-torture, and in part by
superstition, to propound such queries to the bird as will bring him, the
lover, the most of the luxury of sorrow, through the anticipated answer,
'Nevermore.'"]

[Footnote 14: As Poe explains, the raven is "emblematical of mournful and
never-ending remembrance."]

[Footnote 15: From the position of the bird it has been held that the
shadow could not possibly fall upon the floor. But the author says:
"_My_ conception was that of the bracket candelabrum affixed against
the wall, high up above the door and bust, as is often seen in the
English palaces, and even in some of the better houses in New York."]


* * * * *

SELECTIONS FROM PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE

For their generous permission to use _Aëthra, Under the Pines, Cloud
Pictures_, and _Lyric of Action_, the grateful acknowledgments of
the editor are due to The Lothrop Publishing Company, Boston, who hold
the copyright.

THE WILL AND THE WING [1]

To have the will to soar, but not the wings,
Eyes fixed forever on a starry height,
Whence stately shapes of grand imaginings
Flash down the splendors of imperial light;

And yet to lack the charm [2] that makes them ours,
The obedient vassals of that conquering spell,
Whose omnipresent and ethereal powers
Encircle Heaven, nor fear to enter Hell;

This is the doom of Tantalus [3]--the thirst
For beauty's balmy fount to quench the fires
Of the wild passion that our souls have nurst
In hopeless promptings--unfulfilled desires.

Yet would I rather in the outward state
Of Song's immortal temple lay me down,
A beggar basking by that radiant gate, [4]
Than bend beneath the haughtiest empire's crown!

For sometimes, through the bars, my ravished eyes
Have caught brief glimpses of a life divine,
And seen a far, mysterious rapture rise
Beyond the veil [5] that guards the inmost shrine.



MY STUDY [6]

This is my world! within these narrow walls,
I own a princely service;[7] the hot care
And tumult of our frenzied life are here
But as a ghost and echo; what befalls
In the far mart to me is less than naught;
I walk the fields of quiet Arcadies,[8]
And wander by the brink of hoary seas,
Calmed to the tendance of untroubled thought;
Or if a livelier humor should enhance
The slow-time pulse, 'tis not for present strife,
The sordid zeal with which our age is rife,
Its mammon conflicts crowned by fraud or chance,
But gleamings of the lost, heroic life,
Flashed through the gorgeous vistas of romance.



AËTHRA [9]

It is a sweet tradition, with a soul
Of tenderest pathos! Hearken, love!--for all
The sacred undercurrents of the heart
Thrill to its cordial music:
Once a chief,
Philantus, king of Sparta, left the stern
And bleak defiles of his unfruitful land--
Girt by a band of eager colonists--
To seek new homes on fair Italian plains.[10]
Apollo's [11] oracle had darkly spoken:
_"Where'er from cloudless skies a plenteous shower
Outpours, the Fates decree that ye should pause
And rear your household deities!"_
Racked by doubt
Philantus traversed--with his faithful band
Full many a bounteous realm; but still defeat
Darkened his banners, and the strong-walled towns
His desperate sieges grimly laughed to scorn!
Weighed down by anxious thoughts, one sultry eve
The warrior--his rude helmet cast aside--
Rested his weary head upon the lap
Of his fair wife, who loved him tenderly;
And there he drank a generous draught of sleep.
She, gazing on his brow, all worn with toil,
And his dark locks, which pain had silvered over
With glistening touches of a frosty rime,
Wept on the sudden bitterly; her tears
Fell on his face, and, wondering, he woke.
"O blest art thou, my Aëthra, _my clear sky_."
He cried exultant, "from whose pitying blue
A heart-rain falls to fertilize my fate:
Lo! the deep riddle's solved--the gods spake truth!"

So the next night he stormed Tarentum,[12] took
The enemy's host at vantage, and o'erthrew
His mightiest captains. Thence with kindly sway
He ruled those pleasant regions he had won,--
But dearer even than his rich demesnes
The love of her whose gentle tears unlocked
The close-shut mystery of the Oracle!



UNDER THE PINE [13]

_To the memory of Henry Timrod_

The same majestic pine is lifted high
Against the twilight sky,
The same low, melancholy music grieves
Amid the topmost leaves,[14]
As when I watched, and mused, and dreamed with him,
Beneath these shadows dim.

O Tree! hast thou no memory at thy core
Of one who comes no more?
No yearning memory of those scenes that were
So richly calm and fair,
When the last rays of sunset, shimmering down,
Flashed like a royal crown?

And he, with hand outstretched and eyes ablaze,
Looked forth with burning [15] gaze,
And seemed to drink the sunset like strong wine,
Or, hushed in trance divine,
Hailed the first shy and timorous glance from far
Of evening's virgin star?

O Tree! against thy mighty trunk he laid
His weary head; thy shade
Stole o'er him like the first cool spell of sleep:
It brought a peace _so_ deep
The unquiet passion died from out his eyes,
As lightning from stilled skies.

And in that calm he loved to rest, and hear
The soft wind-angels, clear
And sweet, among the uppermost branches sighing:
Voices he heard replying
(Or so he dreamed) far up the mystic height,
And pinions rustling light.

O Tree! have not his poet-touch, his dreams
So full of heavenly gleams,
Wrought through the folded dullness of thy bark,
And all thy nature dark
Stirred to slow throbbings, and the fluttering fire
Of faint, unknown desire?

At least to me there sweeps no rugged ring
That girds the forest king,
No immemorial stain, or awful rent
(The mark of tempest spent),
No delicate leaf, no lithe bough, vine-o'ergrown,
No distant, flickering cone,

But speaks of him, and seems to bring once more
The joy, the love of yore;
But most when breathed from out the sunset-land
The sunset airs are bland,
That blow between the twilight and the night,
Ere yet the stars are bright;

For then that quiet eve comes back to me,
When deeply, thrillingly,
He spake of lofty hopes which vanquish Death;
And on his mortal breath
A language of immortal meanings hung,
That fired his heart and tongue.

For then unearthly breezes stir and sigh,
Murmuring, "Look up! 'tis I:
Thy friend is near thee! Ah, thou canst not see!"
And through the sacred tree
Passes what seems a wild and sentient thrill--
Passes, and all is still!--

Still as the grave which holds his tranquil form,
Hushed after many a storm,--
Still as the calm that crowns his marble brow,
No pain can wrinkle now,--
Still as the peace--pathetic peace of God--
That wraps the holy sod,

Where every flower from our dead minstrel's dust
Should bloom, a type of trust,--
That faith which waxed to wings of heavenward might
To bear his soul from night,--
That faith, dear Christ! whereby we pray to meet
His spirit at God's feet!



CLOUD PICTURES [16]

Here in these mellow grasses, the whole morn,
I love to rest; yonder, the ripening corn
Rustles its greenery; and his blithesome horn

Windeth the frolic breeze o'er field and dell,
Now pealing a bold stave with lusty swell,
Now falling to low breaths ineffable

Of whispered joyance. At calm length I lie,
Fronting the broad blue spaces of the sky,
Covered with cloud-groups, softly journeying by:

An hundred shapes, fantastic, beauteous, strange,
Are theirs, as o'er yon airy waves they range
At the wind's will, from marvelous change to change;

Castles, with guarded roof, and turret tall,
Great sloping archway, and majestic wall,
Sapped by the breezes to their noiseless fall!

Pagodas vague! above whose towers outstream
Banners that wave with motions of a dream--
Rising, or drooping in the noontide gleam;

Gray lines of Orient pilgrims: a gaunt band
On famished camels, o'er the desert sand
Plodding towards their prophet's Holy Land;

Mid-ocean,--and a shoal of whales at play,
Lifting their monstrous frontlets to the day,
Thro' rainbow arches of sun-smitten spray;

Followed by splintered icebergs, vast and lone,
Set in swift currents of some arctic zone,
Like fragments of a Titan's world o'erthrown;

Next, measureless breadths of barren, treeless moor,
Whose vaporous verge fades down a glimmering shore,
Round which the foam-capped billows toss and roar!

Calms of bright water--like a fairy's wiles,
Wooing with ripply cadence and soft smiles,
The golden shore-slopes of Hesperian Isles;

Their inland plains rife with a rare increase
Of plumèd grain! and many a snowy fleece
Shining athwart the dew-lit hills of peace;

Wrecks of gigantic cities--to the tune
Of some wise air-god built!--o'er which the noon
Seems shuddering; caverns, such as the wan Moon

Shows in her desolate bosom; then, a crowd
Of awed and reverent faces, palely bowed
O'er a dead queen, laid in her ashy shroud--

A queen of eld--her pallid brow impearled
By gems barbaric! her strange beauty furled
In mystic cerements of the antique world.

Weird pictures, fancy-gendered!--one by one,
'Twixt blended beams and shadows, gold and dun,
These transient visions vanish in the sun.



LYRIC OF ACTION [17]

'Tis the part of a coward to brood
O'er the past that is withered and dead:
What though the heart's roses are ashes and dust?
What though the heart's music be fled?
Still shine the grand heavens o'erhead,
Whence the voice of an angel thrills clear on the soul,
"Gird about thee thine armor, press on to the goal!"

If the faults or the crimes of thy youth
Are a burden too heavy to bear,
What hope can re-bloom on the desolate waste
Of a jealous and craven despair?
Down, down with the fetters of fear!
In the strength of thy valor and manhood arise,
With the faith that illumes and the will that defies.

"_Too late!_" through God's infinite world,
From his throne to life's nethermost fires,
"_Too late!_" is a phantom that flies at the dawn
Of the soul that repents and aspires.
If pure thou hast made thy desires,
There's no height the strong wings of immortals may gain
Which in striving to reach thou shalt strive for in vain.

Then, up to the contest with fate,
Unbound by the past, which is dead!
What though the heart's roses are ashes and dust?
What though the heart's music be fled?
Still shine the fair heavens o'erhead;
And sublime as the seraph [18] who rules in the sun
Beams the promise of joy when the conflict is won!


For a general introduction to the following poems, see Chapter III. The
selections are intended to exhibit the poet's various moods and themes.

[Footnote 1: This poem, which appeared in the volume of 1855 under the
title _Aspirations_, gives expression to a strong literary impulse.
It was genuine in sentiment, and its aspiring spirit and forceful
utterance gave promise of no ordinary achievement.]

[Footnote 2: An act or formula supposed to exert a magical influence or
power.

"Then, in one moment, she put forth the charm
Of woven paces and of waving hands."
--Tennyson's _Merlin and Vivien_.

Compare the first scene in _Faust_ where the Earth-spirit comes in
obedience to a "conquering spell."]

[Footnote 3: Tantalus was a character of Greek mythology, who, for
divulging the secret counsels of Zeus, was afflicted in the lower world
with an insatiable thirst. He stood up to the chin in a lake, the waters
of which receded whenever he tried to drink of them.]

[Footnote 4: The poet evidently had in mind the lame man who was "laid
daily at the gate of the temple which is called Beautiful."--_Acts_
iii. 2.]

[Footnote 5: A reference to the veil that hung before the Most Holy
Place, or "inmost shrine," of the temple. Compare _Exodus_ xxvi. 33.]

[Footnote 6: This sonnet, which appeared in the volume of 1859, reveals
the retiring, meditative temper of the poet. To him quiet reflection was
more than action. He loved to dwell in spirit with the good and great of
the past. The rude struggles of the market-place for wealth and power
were repugnant to his refined and sensitive nature.]

[Footnote 7: Something served for the refreshment of a person; here an
intellectual feast fit for a prince.]

[Footnote 8: Arcady, or Arcadia, is a place of ideal simplicity and
contentment; so called from a picturesque district in Greece, which was
noted for the simplicity and happiness of its people.]

[Footnote 9: This poem will serve to illustrate Hayne's skill in the use
of blank verse. It is a piece of rare excellence and beauty. The name of
the heroine is pronounced _Ee-thra_.]

[Footnote 10: This migration occurred about 708 B.C.]

[Footnote 11: Apollo was one of the major deities of Grecian mythology.
He was regarded, among other things, as the god of song or minstrelsy,
and also as the god of prophetic inspiration. The most celebrated oracle
of Apollo was at Delphi.]

[Footnote 12: A town in southern Italy, now Taranto. It was in ancient
times a place of great commercial importance.]

[Footnote 13: For the occasion of this poem, see page 61. The poet had a
peculiar fondness for the pine, which in one of his poems he calls--

"My sylvan darling! set 'twixt shade and sheen,
Soft as a maid, yet stately as a queen!"

It is the subject of a half-dozen poems,--_The Voice of the Pines,
Aspect of the Pines, In the Pine Barrens, The Dryad of the Pine, The
Pine's Mystery_, and _The Axe and the Pine_,--all of them in his
happiest vein.]

[Footnote 14: In _The Pine's Mystery_ we read:--

"Passion and mystery murmur through the leaves,
Passion and mystery, touched by deathless pain,
Whose monotone of long, low anguish grieves
For something lost that shall not live again."]

[Footnote 15: Hayne's very careful workmanship is rarely at fault; but
here there seems to be an infelicitous epithet that amounts to a sort of
tautology. "Eyes ablaze" would necessarily "look forth with _burning
gaze_."]

[Footnote 16: This poem illustrates the poet's method of dealing with
Nature. He depicts its beauty as discerned by the artistic imagination.
He is less concerned with the messages of Nature than with its lovely
forms. This poem, in its felicitous word-painting, reminds us of
Tennyson, though it would be difficult to find in the English poet so
brilliant a succession of masterly descriptions.

With this poem may be compared Hayne's _Cloud Fantasies_, a sonnet
that brings before us, with great vividness, the somber appearance of the
clouds in autumn. See also _A Phantom in the Clouds_. No other of
our poets has dwelt so frequently and so delightfully on the changing
aspects of the sky.

Compare Shelley's _The Cloud_.]

[Footnote 17: It is not often that Hayne assumed the hortatory tone found
in this poem. In artistic temperament he was akin to Keats rather than to
Longfellow. Even in his didactic poems, he is meditative and descriptive
rather than hortatory. The artist in him hardly ever gave place to the
preacher.]

[Footnote 18: The seraph's name was Uriel, that is, God's Light. In
_Revelation_ (xix. 17) we read, "And I saw an angel standing in the
sun." Milton calls him--

"The Archangel Uriel--one of the seven
Who in God's presence, nearest to his throne,
Stand ready at command."
--_Paradise Lost_, Book III, 648-650.]


* * * * *

SELECTIONS FROM HARRY TIMROD

TOO LONG, O SPIRIT OF STORM [1]

Too long, O Spirit of storm,
Thy lightning sleeps in its sheath!
I am sick to the soul of yon pallid sky,
And the moveless sea beneath.

Come down in thy strength on the deep!
Worse dangers there are in life,
When the waves are still, and the skies look fair,
Than in their wildest strife.

A friend I knew, whose days
Were as calm as this sky overhead;
But one blue morn that was fairest of all,
The heart in his bosom fell dead.

And they thought him alive while he walked
The streets that he walked in youth--
Ah! little they guessed the seeming man
Was a soulless corpse in sooth.

Come down in thy strength, O Storm!
And lash the deep till it raves!
I am sick to the soul of that quiet sea,
Which hides ten thousand graves.



A CRY TO ARMS [2]

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,[3] 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 armèd bands,
Your sheaves be sheaves of spears!
Give up to mildew and to rust
The useless tools of gain;
And feed your country's sacred dust
With floods of crimson rain!

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.

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.

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?
No! rather let its branches court
The rack [4] that sweeps the plain;
And from the Lily's regal port
Learn how to breast the strain!

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!



ODE [5]

I

Sleep sweetly in your humble graves,
Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause;
Though yet no marble column craves
The pilgrim here to pause.

II

In seeds of laurel in the earth
The blossom of your fame is blown,
And somewhere, waiting for its birth,
The shaft is in the stone![6]

III

Meanwhile, behalf [7] the tardy years
Which keep in trust your storied tombs,
Behold! your sisters bring their tears,
And these memorial blooms.

IV

Small tributes! but your shades will smile
More proudly on these wreaths to-day,
Than when some cannon-molded pile [8]
Shall overlook this bay.

V

Stoop, angels, hither from the skies!
There is no holier spot of ground
Than where defeated valor lies,
By mourning beauty crowned.



FLOWER-LIFE [9]

I think that, next to your sweet eyes,
And pleasant books, and starry skies,
I love the world of flowers;
Less for their beauty of a day,
Than for the tender things they say,
And for a creed I've held alway,
That they are sentient powers.[10]

It may be matter for a smile--
And I laugh secretly the while
I speak the fancy out--
But that they love, and that they woo,
And that they often marry too,
And do as noisier creatures do,
I've not the faintest doubt.

And so, I cannot deem it right
To take them from the glad sunlight,
As I have sometimes dared;
Though not without an anxious sigh
Lest this should break some gentle tie,
Some covenant of friendship, I
Had better far have spared.

And when, in wild or thoughtless hours,
My hand hath crushed the tiniest flowers,
I ne'er could shut from sight
The corpses of the tender things,
With other drear imaginings,
And little angel-flowers with wings
Would haunt me through the night.

Oh! say you, friend, the creed is fraught
With sad, and even with painful thought,
Nor could you bear to know
That such capacities belong
To creatures helpless against wrong,
At once too weak to fly the strong
Or front the feeblest foe?

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