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.

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.

+++++

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 Countess Barlow (1879), by Frederick Leighton

Perfumes from the vernal blowth,

Fraught the air when by yon river,

With confirming kiss we both

Vowed our hears each others’ ever.

Thus we met and thus we parted,

Like two bubbles on the sea,

I still roam, but whence she started,

God has called sweet Jennie Lee.

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When the leaves began to fade,

And the flowers to drop their bloom,

Then she faded, and we laid

Her with them low in the tomb,

At the foot of yonder hill,

‘Neath that weeping-willow tree,

Hard by yonder murm’ring rill

Sleeps my darling, Jennie Lee.

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Swift as mist from off the mountain,

Swift as flies the Indian’s dart,

Fleet as spray lashed from the fountain,

I beheld my joys depart.

Other arms may yet embrace me,

But they never shall erase thee

From my memory, Jennie Lee.

JOHN DODSON TAYLOR, SR.

Above:  A Chain

Image Source = Toni Lozano

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

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We may weld the broken chain,

But the seam will still remain;

Time may heal the wounded bay,

But the seam will always stay.

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Thus, when friendship’s ties dissever,

They may clasp again, but never

Shall the mind, tho’ naught be spoken,

Cease to know they once were broken.

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But with friendship as the arm,

Broke, ’tis subject less toharm;

Wounded friendships last the longest,

And love’s knottiest ties are strongest.

JOHN DODSON TAYLOR, SR.

Above:  Handbells

Image Source =  Oosoom

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

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There is a little Bell that sounds

Like music fling from harps of gold;

And every vibrate sweet resounds

With chords of loveliness untold.

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Each word embodies magic power,

That sooths my heart and quells my fear;

Mild as the dew drop on the flower,

But sharper than a Parthian spear.

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Then ring, sweet Bell, your chimes ne’er break,

You hold my soul in magic spell;

All other sounds but discord make,

Compared to you, my charming Bell.

JOHN DODSON TAYLOR, SR.

Above:  A Drawing of an 1879 Dress

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NOTE:

It seems that my great-grandfather had a series of failed relationships before he married.  At least that is the impression his published poems give me.

KENNETH RANDOLPH TAYLOR

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Fair maid, once loved and still esteemed

With a regard time cannot move,

I send you back what I once deemed

My tenderest trust, save but thy love.

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‘Tis but a picture; why so dear,

So precious to my heart has been it?

‘Tis but a shadow fleet as air

What is there so endearing in it?

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The idle tongue may thus inquire,

And how such blisses were begot,

Those joys tho’ that it did inspire

Alone can answer–I can not.

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When miles on miles have stretched between

Thyself and me; when lone and drear,

This speechless image oft’ has been

A silent minister of cheer.

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It has recalled with something more

Than fancy’s power when bending o’er

It, that thy spirit to was there.

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My eyes again thine seemed to meet,

And thine seemed still with love to blaze,

And thy lips looked still no less sweet

Than tasted they in bygone days.

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But why say more?  All beauty dies,

‘Tis fair, yet so the rainbow’s hue,

It fades, its glorious beauty flies,

And so will fade the picture too.

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But Sol, whose golden tresses twine

Around the pearly drops of rain,

And paint upon the cloud the sign

That storms their fury will retrain;

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Tho’ we forget his tinted rays

And mind his glorious wonders not,

Creation dies without his blaze,

And he shall never be forgot.

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So tho’ the picture fade away,

As it must do as years shall wear,

Yet, on my memory thou wilt stay,

Whose beauty is reflected there.

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Say, do I ask too much of thee,

As down life’s path we severed stray,

That thou wilt sometimes think of me?

If so, forget me then, I pray.

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If Heaven decrees we’ll meet no more,

I’ll gladly say: “Thy will be done.”

To see thee would but kindle o’er

A flame not yet entirely gone.

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But if we should, our hearts may ache,

Our minds dwell on the past with pain,

Yet let the lips no mention make

Of bliss too sweet to know again.

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Some unknown hand,–benign or dire,–

Thee from my mind and heart may take,

Yet fonder hope; that friendship’s fire

From love’s cold ashes might awake.

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The cloud that dims the azure skies

Is scattered oft by it its own breath,

And beauties from decay arise,

And life is but the child of death,

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Good-bye!  the word with pain is fraught,

Its heart boils o’er my brimming eye,

‘Twas not I only tho’ that wrought

The cureless wound–good-bye, good-bye.

JOHN DODSON TAYLOR, SR.

Above:  Woman with Parrot (La Femme a la Perruche), by Philippe-Auguste Renoir

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It seems that my great-grandfather had some disappointments with love when he was a young man.   I arrive at this conclusion based on poems he chose to publish in 1883.

KENNETH RANDOLPH TAYLOR

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As two floating specks of foam

Every hour we further sever–

Come back, O! my darling, come,

Little more we part forever.

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Was I right?  Oh! can it be

It was true what I foretold,

That when thou wast gone from me

Thou’d forget and soon grow cold?

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Then I did not hink it so

Then my tongue my heart belied,

But a voice now clear, tho’ low,

Says I rightly prophesied.

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What!  do all thy sacred vows

Now but idle babblings seem?

Has the love thou didst espouse

Proven but an empty dream?

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Have the joys that we have known

Clasped in mutual embrace,

From thy recollection flown

Giving kindred joys a place?

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When the rebel angels fell,

By Jehovah’s vengeance driven,

Hell had been a milder hell

Had they never been in heaven.

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Thus my hours of loneliness

Half so gloomy would not be

Had I power to suppress

Mem’ry of the past with thee.

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From their mem’ry I can borrow

Only grief, ’tis all it lends;

For it is a kindred sorrow

To that for departed friends.

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Ah! how sweet were they, the shadow

Of what shall be real made;

But this truth stings like an adder:

They were shadows of a shade.

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Thus those hours, so sweetly gliding,

Shall be chains to ever bin’

Or shall be a gulf dividing,

Ever twixt my heart and thine.

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So it is–would ’twere not so–

Love transformed but loathing brings;

And the deepest hatreds flow

From Love’s purest, sweetest springs.

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Deadliest hate that e’er resided

In a heart of any grade,

Is of hearts that once confided,

And, confiding, were betrayed.

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Oh! my darling, would they have me

Ever thus from thee to go?

Then don’t take the heart thou gave me,

Or it will, it must, be so.

JOHN DODSON TAYLOR, SR.