BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND THE GIFT OF HENRY W. SAGE 1891 Cornell University Library PS 3073.T5 Timrod souveninlMI— At Ws njemorjal: J 3 1924 022 200 319 Cornell University Library The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022200319 TlMROD S00VENia JVtEMORMt^J^pEM ATtlMROp^S GRAVE B> HENRY AjpSrrN. , :; iy CARL McKINLEY V THE PROMISE / ; : 9V WM^ A. CO^RTINAY W. t*5 WASH ^URNiPubUsher { Ai^en, $tiuth Catplina; DMIRERS of Timrod will be glad to learn that there has been issued a "Timrod Souvenir" in dainty booklet form, the work of The Palmetto Press, Aiken, S. C. It is handsomely printed in black and red, from newCaslon old-style type on heavy Whatman hand-made paper, with minia- ture photogravure of the poet Timrod, from the original portrait in oil, on Japan paper, and contains the poem read by Henry Austin at the dedication of the Timrod Memorial at Charleston; the poem written by Carl McKinley in 1877, entitled "At Timrod's Grave," and an incident which took place in 1865, be- tween the poet and Wm, A. Courtenay, when the latter promised the poet that if possible his poems should be published in book form. How well the promise was kept is known to all.tlrThe Timrod Sou- venir will be sent to any address postpaid on receipt of SO cents. Address W. L. WASHBURN, Publisher, Aiken, S. C. HENRY TIMROD 1829 — 1867 "The glory dies not, and the grief is past." Timrod Souvenir 1 901 — At his Memorial > 1877 — At his Unmarked Grave 1865 — The Promise PRINTED AT THE PALMETTO PRESS AIKEN, S. C. DECEMBER, MDCCCCI This is NcA^ of 45° copies printed on Whatman paper 1901 Qlt tl)c €imrob memorial CHARLESTON, S. C. FOREVER fair, forever young. Leaving her loved, Olympian hill. The Goddess of the rhythmic tongue Visits her chosen still. Not w^ith a loud, tempestuous rush. Or sudden flash of golden wings. Descends the highest Muse: a hush Of balmy calm she brings. Mysterious as a spectral ship Emerging from a spectral mist. She comes with fresh, with floral, lip, By winds auroral kissed. To him She came — that dreamy boy. Knight-errant through the vernal camps. Where jasmines, in their virgin joy. Relume perfumed " lamps." On him She smiled in many a glen. By many a wild and weird lagoon. Where erst the songs of Marion's men Rang to the midnight moon. She gave him of her grace antique. Of deeds divine, divinely sung ; She thrilled him w^ith the surge of Greek And Rome's majestic tongue. Deeply he felt that ancient grace. That pow^er, which bade the song outroU ; The song of Helen's fatal face And Hector's patriot soul. So deeply — that in after days To his own Troy, beleaguered long, Serene amid the battle's blaze He sang a clarion song. His Troy went down ; but o'er the hush Of the spent storm of blood and tears, Sweeter than lilt of lark or thrush. Up the resounding years His lyric rapture echoing flows, Each vital note as crystal-clear As dew of dawn upon the rose Or Pity's perfect tear. O Poesy, so quick to thrill And soften e'en a foeman's breast. No compass bounds thy scope and skill — No South, North, East or West. The whole world trembles to thy charms ; Is chastened by thy mystic spell ; Art rose a victor over arms. When Hermes strung the shell. Measured by outward shows alone. How sad our Poet's life would seem, O'ershadowed by a Cause o'er thrown — The chaos of a dream ! How signed for grief and set apart ! Nay, whensoe'er the Muse is kind. She makes a hey-day of the heart — A May-day of the mind. Music is aye its own reward ; Its own rich recompense is Rhyme : Bright, when the splendor of the sword Rusts in the sheath of Time. Thus, now that Carolina calls No longer on her soldier sons, And Peace, with sweet oblivion, falls Upon the "festal guns," The lyrist of her valiant past. The limner of a radiant land. Receives his monument, at last. From Carolina's hand. o Henry Austin. 1877 COLUMBIA, S. C. HARP of the South ! no more, no more Thy silvery strings shall quiver. The one strong hand might v^in thy strains Is chilled and stilled forever. Our one svi^eet singer breaks no more The silence sad and long, The land is hushed from shore to shore. It brooks no feebler song ! 9 No other voice can charm our ears. None other soothe our pain ; Better these echoes lingering yet Than any ruder strain. For singing, Fate hath given sighs. For music we make moan ; Ah ! who may touch the harp strings since That whisper — " He is gone!" See where he lies — his last sad home Of all memorial bare, Save for a little heap of leaves The winds have gathered there ! One fair, frail shell from some far sea Lies lone above his breast. Sad emblem and sole epitaph To mark his place of rest. The sweet winds murmur in its heart A music soft and low, As they would bring their secrets still To him who sleeps below. And lo ! one tender, tearful bloom Wins upward through the grass. As some sweet thought he left unsung Were blossoming at last! Wild weeds grow rank about the place, A dark, cold spot, and drear ; The dull neglect that marked his life Hath followed even here. Around shine many a marble shaft And polished pillar fair. And strangers stand at Timrod's grave To praise them, unaware ! " Hold up the glories of thy dead !" To thine own self be true. Land that he loved! Come, honor now This grave that honors you ! ,2 Carl McKinley. 1865 3ri)e promise IN JANUARY, 1865, I was accidently thrown with him for about two hours, waiting at a railroad station. He was then in feeble health, depressed in spirits, and in the midst of that general desolation which only those knew of, who shared the calamities that overtook our dear Southland at the close of the war. On that, to me, most sad and well remembered occasion, and the last time I ever saw him, I recall his plaintive regrets at the apparently hopeless task of collecting and publishing his poems. He spoke of his repeated disappointments in life, but kept '3 dwelling with deep feeling upon the non- publication of his literary works. Finally I said to him : " Harry, we are all in a great deal of trouble, the future is very uncertain, and promises may be difficult to fulfil, but if my life is spared, and I can accomplish your wish, I promise you I will do it." He instantly started up, gladly seized my hands, and exclaimed eagerly : " Will you ? Will you?" "Yes," I said,' "I will certainly do it if I can." — Wm. A. Courtenay in Au- gusta Chronicle. 14