We knew it would rain, for the poplars showed
The white of their leaves, the amber grain
Shrunk in the wind-and the lightning now
Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain!

IO

AFTER THE RAIN

The rain has ceased, and in my room
The sunshine pours an airy flood;
And on the church's dizzy vane
The ancient Cross is bathed in blood.

From out the dripping ivy-leaves,
Antiquely-carven, gray, and high,
A dormer, facing westward, looks
Upon the village like an eye:

And now it glimmers in the sun,
A globe of gold, a disc, a speck:
And in the belfry sits a Dove
With purple ripples on her neck.

PAMPINEA

AN IDYL

Lying by the summer sea

I had a dream of Italy.

Chalky cliffs and miles of sand,
Mossy reefs and salty caves,
Then the sparkling emerald waves,
Faded; and I seemed to stand,
Myself a languid Florentine,
In the heart of that fair land.
And in a garden cool and green,
Boccaccio's own enchanted place,
I met Pampinea, face to face-
A maid so lovely that to see
Her smile is to know Italy!

Her hair was like a coronet

Upon her Grecian forehead set,
Where one gem glistened sunnily

Like Venice, when first seen at sea!

I saw within her violet eyes
The starlight of Italian skies,

And on her brow and breast and hand
The olive of her native land.

And knowing how in other times
Her lips were ripe with Tuscan rhymes
Of love and wine and dance, I spread
My mantle by an almond tree,
"And here, beneath the rose," I said,
"I'll hear thy Tuscan melody!"

I heard a tale that was not told
In those ten dreamy days of old,
When Heaven for some divine offence,
Smote Florence with the pestilence;
And in that garden's odorous shade,
The dames of the Decameron,
With each a loyal lover, strayed,
To laugh and sing, at sorest need,
To lie in the lilies in the sun
With glint of plume and silver brede!
And while she whispered in my ear,
The pleasant Arno murmured near,
The dewy, slim chameleons run
Through twenty colors in the sun;
The breezes broke the fountain's glass,
And woke æolian melodies,

And shook from out the scented trees
The lemon-blossoms on the grass.

The tale? I have forgot the tale!

A Lady all for love forlorn,

A rose-bud, and a nightingale

That bruised his bosom on the thorn;
A pot of rubies buried deep,

A glen, a corpse, a child asleep,

A Monk, that was no monk at all,

In the moonlight by a castle wall.

Now while the large-eyed Tuscan wove

The gilded thread of her romance

Which I have lost by grievous chance-
The one dear woman that I love,

Beside me in our seaside nook,
Closed a white finger in her book,

[The selections from Timrod are reprinted from the copyrighted Memorial edition of his poems, with the permission of the B. F. Johnson Publishing Co.]

THE LILY CONFIDANTE

Lily, lady of the garden,

Let me press my lip to thine:
Love must tell its story, Lily;

Listen thou to mine.

"With a speech as chaste and gentle,
And such meanings as become

Ear of child or ear of angel,

Speak, or be thou dumb.

"Woo her thus, and she shall give thee
Of her heart the sinless whole,

All the girl within her bosom,

And her woman's soul."

1858.

CHARLESTON

Calm as that second summer which precedes

The first fall of the snow,

In the broad sunlight of heroic deeds

The City bides the foe.

As yet, behind their ramparts stern and proud,
Her bolted thunders sleep-

Dark Sumter like a battlemented cloud

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Meanwhile, through streets still echoing with trade,

Walk grave and thoughtful men

Whose hands may one day wield the patriot's blade
As lightly as the pen.

And maidens with such eyes as would grow dim

Over a bleeding hound

Seem each one to have caught the strength of him
Whose sword she sadly bound.

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