Poets of the South Part 10

Shakespeare has given beautiful expression to this belief:--

"There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins; Such harmony is in immortal souls; But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it."

--_Merchant of Venice_, Act V., Sc. 1.]

[Footnote 5: See sketch of Simms, page 16. This poem is found in _The Partisan_, the first of three novels descriptive of the Revolution.

Read a biographical sketch of General Francis Marion (1732-1795), whose shrewdness in attack and escape earned for him the _sobriquet_ "Swamp Fox."]

[Footnote 6: Sir Banastre Tarleton (1754-1833) was a lieutenant colonel in the army of Cornwallis. He was a brilliant and successful officer, but was defeated by General Morgan in the battle of Cowpens in 1781.]

[Footnote 7: "Sumter, Marion, and other South Carolina leaders found places of refuge in the great swamps which are found in parts of the state; and from these they kept up an active warfare with the British.

Their desperate battles, night marches, surprises, and hairbreadth escapes make this the most exciting and interesting period of the Revolution."--Johnston's _History of the United States_.]

[Footnote 8: Marion's princ.i.p.al field of operations lay between the Santee and Pedee rivers.]

[Footnote 9: Marion held the rank of captain at the outbreak of the Revolution, and was made lieutenant colonel for gallant conduct in the defence of Fort Moultrie, June 28, 1776. Later he was made general.]

[Footnote 10: A water tortoise or snapping turtle.]

Compare Bryant's _Song of Marion's Men_.

SELECTIONS FROM EDWARD COATE PINKNEY

A HEALTH [1]

I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle s.e.x The seeming paragon; To whom the better elements And kindly stars have given A form so fair, that, like the air, 'Tis less of earth than heaven.

Her every tone is music's own, Like those of morning birds, And something more than melody Dwells ever in her words; The coinage of her heart are they, And from her lips each flows As one may see the burdened bee Forth issue from the rose.

Affections are as thoughts to her,[2]

The measures of her hours; Her feelings have the fragrancy, The freshness of young flowers; And lovely pa.s.sions, changing oft, So fill her, she appears The image of themselves by turns,-- The idol of past years!

Of her bright face one glance will trace A picture on the brain, And of her voice in echoing hearts A sound must long remain; But memory, such as mine of her, So very much endears, When death is nigh my latest sigh Will not be life's, but hers.

I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle s.e.x The seeming paragon-- Her health! and would on earth there stood Some more of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, And weariness a name. [3]

SONG

We break the gla.s.s, whose sacred wine To some beloved health we drain, Lest future pledges, less divine, Should e'er the hallowed toy profane; And thus I broke a heart that poured Its tide of feelings out for thee, In draught, by after-times deplored, Yet dear to memory.

But still the old, impa.s.sioned ways And habits of my mind remain, And still unhappy light displays Thine image chambered in my brain; And still it looks as when the hours Went by like flights of singing birds,[4]

Or that soft chain of spoken flowers and airy gems,--thy words.

VOTIVE SONG

I burn no incense, hang no wreath, On this thine early tomb: Such can not cheer the place of death, But only mock its gloom.

Here odorous smoke and breathing flower No grateful influence shed; They lose their perfume and their power, When offered to the dead.

And if, as is the Afghaun's creed, The spirit may return, A disembodied sense to feed On fragrance, near its urn,-- It is enough that she, whom thou Didst love in living years, Sits desolate beside it now, And fall these heavy tears.

[Footnote 1: See sketch of Pinkney, page 18. The flowing or lilting melody of this and the following songs is quite remarkable. It is traceable to the skillful use of liquid consonants and short vowels, and the avoidance of harsh consonant combinations.]

[Footnote 2: The irregularities of this stanza are remarkable. The middle rhyme used in the first and seventh lines of the other stanzas is here lacking. It seems to have been an oversight on the part of the poet.]

[Footnote 3: With this drinking song we may compare the well-known one of Ben Jonson:--

"Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I'll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine.

"I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honoring thee As giving it a hope that there It could not withered be; But thou thereon didst only breathe And sent'st it back to me; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee."]

[Footnote 4: This same simile occurs in a beautiful poem by Amelia C.

Welby (1819-1852), a Southern poet of no mean gifts, ent.i.tled _Twilight at Sea_:--

"The twilight hours like birds flew by, As lightly and as free; Ten thousand stars were in the sky, Ten thousand on the sea; For every wave with dimpled face, That leaped upon the air, Had caught a star in its embrace, And held it trembling there."]

SELECTION FROM PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE

FLORENCE VANE [1]

I loved thee long and dearly, Florence Vane; My life's bright dream, and early, Hath come again; I renew, in my fond vision, My heart's dear pain; My hope, and thy derision, Florence Vane.

The ruin lone and h.o.a.ry, The ruin old, Where thou didst hark my story, At even told,-- That spot--the hues Elysian Of sky and plain-- I treasure in my vision, Florence Vane.

Thou wast lovelier than the roses In their prime; Thy voice excelled the closes Of sweetest rhyme; Thy heart was as a river Without a main. [2]

Would I had loved thee never, Florence Vane.

But fairest, coldest wonder!

Thy glorious clay Lieth the green sod under-- Alas the day!

And it boots not to remember Thy disdain-- To quicken love's pale ember, Florence Vane.

The lilies of the valley By young graves weep, The pansies love to dally Where maidens sleep; May their bloom, in beauty vying, Never wane, Where thine earthly part is lying, Florence Vane!

[Footnote 1: See sketch of Cooke, page 19. In the preface to the volume from which this poem is taken, the author tells us that _Florence Vane and Rosalie Lee_, another brief lyric, had "met with more favor than I could ever perceive their just claim to." Hence he was kept from "venturing upon the correction of some faults." _Rosalie Lee_ is more than usually defective in meter and rhyme, but Florence Vane cannot easily be improved.]