Above:  An Excerpt from The Atlanta Constitution, December 12, 1883, page 3

Obtained via newspapers.com

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My great-grandfather, John Dodson Taylor, Sr. (1860-1936), published a volume of poetry (most of the contents of which I have added to this weblog) in 1883.  The “Book Notices” column of the December 12, 1883, issue of The Atlanta Constitution included a mention of that volume.

KENNETH RANDOLPH TAYLOR

Above:  Woman with Parrot, by Pierre-Auguste Renoir

Upon this page, so fair, so white,

So like your character, I ween,

Permit one here his name to write,

Whose friendship’s firm tho’ brief ‘t has been.

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That sometimes when o’er it you bend,

Which–not like memory–changes not,

It haply may recall a friend

Who but for it would be forgot.

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And here a parting wish I’ll give,

‘Tis friendship’s, and no task is lighter,

The many virtues that you have

Remain unchanged–they can’t be brighter.

JOHN DODSON TAYLOR, SR.

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With this post I reach the end of my journey through my great-grandfather’s 1883 volume of poetry.

KENNETH RANDOLPH TAYLOR

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Above:  Buttons

Image Source = Marco Bernardini

(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Three_holes_buttons.jpg)

What satisfaction to disguise,

And hide yourself from mine,

And wait till seen by curious eyes

To let your glories shine?

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If I did kiss her, and ‘t were harm,

What business yours to spout it?

If I did fold her in my arm,

Why tell the world about it?

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You saucy little villain you,

To practice such deceit,

If ’twas not for the place you grew,

I’d cuss at you a bit.

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How oft’ the traits of this small hair

The human kind display!

They’re friends till some good chance appear,

And then they will betray.

JOHN DODSON, TAYLOR, SR. 

Above:  An Hourglass

Image Source = User:S Sepp

(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Wooden_hourglass_3.jpg)

Oh! for some magic pen, some art,

My name indelibly to trace

Upon the tablets of thy heart,

Which time’s rude hand could not erase!

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Could album leaves keep memory bright,

And friendships from disaster free,

Then I would be content to write

Upon this page, “Remember me.”

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But these frail leaves, tho’ white and fair,

May perish with the names here written,

And if recorded only here,

Then mine, with all should be forgotten.

JOHN DODSON TAYLOR, SR.

Above:  The Blue Lady, by Pierre-Auguste Renoir

You are pretty, Miss, I know,

Loved by many a silly beau,

But ‘t is not that sacred love

Kindred to the kind above.

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‘Tis a baser love’s keen darts

That have shot their chicken hears,

And have seized and hold the reins

O’er their watery, pigeon brains.

Could they only look within

At the soul so warped by sin,

At the heart by passion stormed,

Rent, distorted and deformed,

See the chaos ignorance wrought,

Where should be the realms of thought,

It would tame the wildest rove,

And turn sour such a love.

They would tell you otherwise,

Stamp what I say only lies.

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But you’ll find in season due,

Every word I say is true,

For the rose that blooms to-day,

On your cheek, shall fade away,

And for beauty, now so rare,

Ashy paleness shall be there;

Then those lips, in ruby dress,

That so many long to press,

Shall be shrunk–then I’ll not kiss ’em,

If there’s any chance to miss ’em.

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Then ‘ll your silly, giggling, grin

Show no pearly teeth within,

And the lustre then shall fly

From your sparkling, dancing eye,

Sunken in its socket deep,

Thence no spirit fair shall peep,

For were you of passion’s fire,

And your easy nestled ire,

Vanity and pride but reft,

There would be no spirit left.

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Many a trace of care’s rough plough

Shall be then upon your brow,

And your silly, giggling tones,

Be replaced with sighs and groans,

And that form does not inspire,

As it now does, warm desire.

Twisted, shrunken, stooped, and lean,

Whippoorwill-like, lank and keen,

With your little soul and mind,

By the coils of vice entwined;

It would make all love to shrivel,

For ‘twould nauseate old Scratch.

JOHN DODSON TAYLOR, SR.

Above:  St. Elizabeth’s Episcopal Church, Dahlonega, Georgia, September 23, 2012

Image Source = Bill Monk, Episcopal Diocese of Atlanta

(https://plus.google.com/photos/114749828757741527421/albums/5791491660487967409/5791766629689426338?banner=pwa)

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If  thou ‘st corroding care,

If thou dost sorrows bear,

If thou in dark despair

Helpless art driven,

Come to thy Father’s throne,

Make there thy sorrows known,

Balm for thy woe there’s none,

Only from Heaven.

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Hast thy heart ever been

Bound by besetting sin,

And by temptations keen,

Is thy soul riven?

Come to a throne of grace,

Seek there thy Father’s face,

For there can come release

Only from Heaven.

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Or didst thy heart but prove

Hard when the Spirit strove

And has a Saviour’s love

Never been given?

Hasten then to depart,

Come only as thou art,

There is melting for thy heart,

Only from Heaven.

JOHN DODSON TAYLOR, SR.

In this post I present two poems by my great-grandfather; the first leads directly into the second.

KENNETH RANDOLPH TAYLOR

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A LETTER

Hear my warning, hear me, maiden,

For the heart to thee I swore

Is departing, swiftly, surely,

And will soon be thine no more.

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It now clings to thee but faintly,

Held there only by its vow;

Not impelled by some strange magic,

But it clings by effort now.

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I have seen another’s beauty,

Though not greater than thine own,

But like sleep ‘t has stolen on me,

Till my love for thee has flown.

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I am sorry for thee, maiden,

If thy love is true indeed;

And it fills my soul with anguish,

Thus to make thy pure heart bleed.

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All thy charms I still remember,

And I fan would love thee still;

But the heart is independent

Of the reason or the will.

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I would ask thee to forgive me,

But my prayer would useless be;

For the heart that would seek pardon,

Could not grant it unto thee.

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May’st thou find another lover

Worthy well the heart of thee;

And may it love him as truly

As tho’ it had ne’er loved me.

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Be thine arms to him as tender

As when round me they did twine;

And thy lips lose none their sweetness,

Tho’ they have been pressed to mine.

THE REPLY

All is over, we must sever,

Learn to hate shall be rule,

We have played our part together,

Thou the knave, and I the fool.

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May the curtain drop between,

‘Twixt us, to be lifted never,

And, oh! would that it could screen

Thee from mem’ry’s eye forever.

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Woman’s love is born of spirit,

Man’s is only passion’s child,

And she can not, like him, tear it

From the heart when once beguiled.

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But I’ll gladly set thee free

From thy vows, with all their ties,

But it is not given me

To forgive thee for thy lies.

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Seek forgiveness at His throne,

His whose witness thou didst call

When–my hand within thine own–

From thy lips the oath did fall.

JOHN DODSON TAYLOR, SR.

Above:  An Unidentified Cemetery in Georgia

Photograph Taken by W. E. . DuBois, 1899

Image Source = Library of Congress

(http://www.loc.gov/pictures/item/99472249/)

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(This piece was adapted to a little air which I “picked up,” but whose name I do not recollect; yet, as I know nothing of music, I can’t say whether my song meets the requirements of the art or not.  T.)

1.  Darling, I to-day have strayed

To the place where thou art laid;

And with drooping flowers that wave,

I am weeping o’er thy grave.

CHORUS

Sleep, my darling, sweetly sleep,

Torn tho’ from my fond embrace;

I a lover’s vigil keep

O’er thy lone, last resting place.

2.  Thou art hidden from mine eyes,

Thou art deaf to all my cries;

But I feel thy spirit near,

And I know that thou art here.

CHORUS

3.  Peaceful, darling, by thy rest,

Light the Sod upon thy breast;

And till ‘yond the grave we meet,

Here shall be my oft retreat.

CHORUS

JOHN DODSON TAYLOR, SR.

Above:  Portrait of Jeanna Samary, by Pierre-Auguste Renoir

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Thy form, sweetest girl,

Ruby lips, teach of pearl,

And thy fair auburn curl,

I truly adore.

Yet when as the snow,

Thy tresses shall flow,

And thy cheeks cease to glow,

I will love thee still more.

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My tongue can not tell,

Yet thou knowest full well

The emotions that swell

In my heart for thy sake.

Greatest pleasure I find,

When thou are entwiend

In the thoughts of my mind,

If asleep or awake.

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As the beacon’s clear light

Through the long stormy night,

Guides the sailor aright

O’er the deep, troubled sea;

So ‘lt thou, my own dear,

On life’s ocean drear,

A solace and cheer

To my heart ever be.

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As the vine’s fragile form

Stretches out its weak arm

For a stay ‘gainst the storm

And whereon to recline,

So my heart, sad and lone,

Grasps for thee, dearest one.

Save thee, there is none

That its love would entwine.

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What the causes that move me,

That thus I should love thee?

Fair Aurora above–see

Her red tapers burn.

But why they enliven

The far Northern heaven,

It has never been given

Unto man to discern.

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See yon stars twinkling bright

On the brow of the night;

Suffice it, their light

Comes down from above;

Then ask not the why,

But believe me, that I,

Until I shall die,

Shall not cease to love.

JOHN DODSON TAYLOR, SR.

Above:  The Blue Lady, by Pierre-Auguste Renoir

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What you would have if I quite understand,

Is that I write some laudatory lines,

And tell folks how love’s sacred flame is fanned

By those rare charms which your sweet self combines.

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Now really, I’d like to take the task,

I’m always ready such a work to do,

But pardon, Miss, and suffer me to ask

What is there good that I can say of you?

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For if there is a noble trait in you,

‘Tis more than I’ve been able yet to see,

If you can manage to bring it to view

Be pleased to do so, and to show it me.

JOHN DODSON TAYLOR, SR.