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 b.u.t.tercup!
I roam with her through fields of cane, 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 pa.s.sion 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.
Heaven! shed thy most propitious dews around!
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:
[27] The following extracts are made by permission of Mr. E. J. Hale, formerly of E. J. Hale & Son.
PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.
~1830=1886.~
PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE has been justly called the "Laureate of the South." He was born at Charleston, and being left an orphan by the death of his father, Lieutenant Hayne of the Navy, he was reared and educated by his uncle, Robert Young Hayne. His fortune was ample, but he studied law although he never practised. He became editor of "Russell"s Magazine" and a contributor to the "Southern Literary Messenger." His genius and lovely nature made him a favorite with all of his companions, among whom were notably William Gilmore Simms and Henry Timrod.
During the Civil War, he served in the Confederate Army; his entire property, the inheritance of several generations, was destroyed in the bombardment of Charleston. From 1865 till his death he resided at "Copse Hill," a small cottage home in the pine hills near Augusta, Georgia, "keeping the wolf from the door only by the point of his pen," dearly honored and loved by all who knew him or his poems.
His son, William H. Hayne, is also a poet of much ability, and has published a volume of "Sylvan Lyrics."
WORKS.
Poems containing Sonnets Avolio Lyrics Mountain of the Lovers.
Preceded by a Sketch of the Poet by Mrs. M. J. Preston (1882).
Life of Robert Young Hayne (1878).
Life of Hugh Swinton Legare (1878).
[Ill.u.s.tration: ~University of Texas (Main Building), Austin, Texas.~]
"There is no poet in America who has written more lovingly or discriminatingly about nature in her ever varying aspects. We are sure that in his loyal allegiance to her, he is not a whit behind Wordsworth, and we do not hesitate to say that he has often a grace that the old Lake-poet lacks."--Mrs. Preston.
"Hayne has the lyric gift, and his shorter poems have a ring and richness that recall the glories of the Elizabethan period; . . . each shows the same careful and artistic workmanship."--Collier.
THE MOCKING-BIRD.
(_At Night._)
(_From Poems, 1882._[28])
A golden pallor of voluptuous light Filled the warm southern night; The moon, clear orbed, above the sylvan scene Moved like a stately Queen, So rife with conscious beauty all the while, What could she do but smile At her own perfect loveliness below, Gla.s.sed in the tranquil flow Of crystal fountains and unruffled streams?
Half lost in waking dreams, As down the loneliest forest dell I strayed, Lo! from a neighboring glade, Flashed through the drifts of moonshine, swiftly came A fairy shape of flame.
It rose in dazzling spirals overhead, Whence, to wild sweetness wed, Poured marvellous melodies, silvery trill on trill; The very leaves grew still On the charmed trees to hearken; while, for me, Heart-thrilled to ecstasy, I followed--followed the bright shape that flew, Still circling up the blue, Till, as a fountain that has reached its height Falls back in sprays of light Slowly dissolved, so that enrapturing lay, Divinely melts away Through tremulous s.p.a.ces to a music-mist, Soon by the fitful breeze How gently kissed Into remote and tender silences.
SONNET.--OCTOBER.
The pa.s.sionate summer"s dead! the sky"s aglow With roseate flushes of matured desire, The winds at eve are musical and low, As sweeping chords of a lamenting lyre, Far up among the pillared clouds of fire, Whose pomp of strange procession upward rolls, With gorgeous blazonry of pictured scrolls, To celebrate the summer"s past renown; Ah, me! how regally the heavens look down, O"ershadowing beautiful autumnal woods And harvest fields with h.o.a.rded increase brown, And deep-toned majesty of golden floods, That raise their solemn dirges to the sky, To swell the purple pomp that floateth by.
A DREAM OF THE SOUTH WIND.
O fresh, how fresh and fair Through the crystal gulfs of air, The fairy South Wind floateth on her subtle wings of balm!
And the green earth lapped in bliss, To the magic of her kiss Seems yearning upward fondly through the golden-crested calm.
From the distant Tropic strand Where the billows, bright and bland, Go creeping, curling round the palms with sweet, faint undertune; From its fields of purpling flowers Still wet with fragrant showers, The happy South Wind lingering sweeps the royal blooms of June.
All heavenly fancies rise On the perfume of her sighs, Which steep the inmost spirit in a languor rare and fine, And a peace more pure than sleep"s Unto dim half-conscious deeps, Transports me, lulled and dreaming, on its twilight tides divine.
Those dreams! ah, me! the splendor, So mystical and tender, Wherewith like soft heat lightnings they gird their meaning round, And those waters, calling, calling, With a nameless charm enthralling, Like the ghost of music melting on a rainbow spray of sound!
Touch, touch me not, nor wake me, Lest grosser thoughts o"ertake me; From earth receding faintly with her dreary din and jars-- What viewless arms caress me?
What whispered voices bless me, With welcomes dropping dew-like from the weird and wondrous stars?
Alas! dim, dim, and dimmer Grows the preternatural glimmer Of that trance the South Wind brought me on her subtle wings of balm, For behold! its spirit flieth, And its fairy murmur dieth, And the silence closing round me is a dull and soulless calm!
FOOTNOTE:
[28] By permission of the Lothrop Publishing Co., Boston; as also the others following.
JOHN ESTEN COOKE.
~1830=1886.~
JOHN ESTEN COOKE was born at Winchester, Virginia, a younger brother of Philip Pendleton Cooke and son of the eminent jurist, John Rogers Cooke, under whom he made his law studies. He seemed, however, to prefer literature to law, and when he was twenty-four he had already published several works. Among them was "Virginia Comedians," a novel of great interest and greater promise.