Part 18 (1/2)

Of other poems written at that time he thought better. In the preface to his volume he says of them,--”They are faithful records of my feelings at the time, often noted down hastily by the wayside, and aspiring to no higher place than the memory of some pilgrim who may, under like circ.u.mstances, look upon the same scenes. An ivy leaf from a tower where a hero of old history may have dwelt, or the simplest weed growing over the dust that once held a great soul, is reverently kept for memories it inherited through the chance fortune of the wind-sown seed; and I would fain hope that these rhymes may bear with them a like simple claim to reception, from those who have given me their company through the story of my wanderings.”

Soon after he went to New York he began a series of Californian ballads, which were published anonymously in the _Literary World_, and attracted considerable attention. They appeared before he had made his trip to California; but while on that trip he wrote still others. At the same time he began several more ambitious poems, among them ”Hylas,” and just before he set out for Egypt he had another volume of poems ready for the press. It was ent.i.tled ”A Book of Romances, Lyrics and Songs,” and was published in Boston just after he set out on his Eastern journey. But while his volumes of travel sold edition after edition his volumes of verse scarcely paid expenses.

The previous year, however,--1850,--he had had a bit of success which caused him no end of annoyance. Jenny Lind had been brought to America to sing, and her manager had offered a prize of $200 for the best song that might be written for her. ”Bayard Taylor came to me one afternoon early in September,” says Mr. R.H. Stoddard, ”and confided to me the fact that he was to be declared the winner of this perilous prize, and that he foresaw a row. They will say it was given to me because Putnam, who is my publisher, is one of the committee, and because Ripley, who is my a.s.sociate on the _Tribune_, is another.'”

Mr. Stoddard kindly suggested to him that if he feared the results, he might subst.i.tute his (Stoddard's) name for the real one, and take the money while Stoddard got the abuse. He did not choose to do this, however, and the indignation of the seven or eight hundred disappointed contributors was unbounded. Taylor bore their abuse well enough, but he was heartily ashamed of the reputation which the poem brought him.

CHAPTER XI

”POEMS OF THE ORIENT”

During the months he spent in Egypt, Syria, and Asia Minor, Bayard Taylor wrote his ”Poems of the Orient,” of which Mr. Stoddard says, ”I thought, and I think so still when I read these spirited and picturesque poems, that Bayard Taylor had captured the poetic secret of the East as no English-writing poet but Byron had. He knew the East as no one can possibly know it from books.”

Certainly these poems of the East have a haunting ring that can never be forgotten. What more stirring than this Bedouin love song!

From the desert I come to thee On a stallion shod with fire; And the winds are left behind

In the speed of my desire.

Under thy window I stand, And the midnight hears my cry: I love thee, I love but thee, With a love that shall not die, _Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold_!

Or what more grand and affectionate than this from ”Ha.s.san to his Mare”:

Come, my beauty! come, my desert darling!

On my shoulder lay thy glossy head!

Fear not, though the barley-sack be empty, Here's the half of Ha.s.san's scanty bread.

Thou shalt have thy share of dates, my beauty!

And thou know'st my water-skin is free; Drink and welcome, for the wells are distant, And my strength and safety lie in thee.

Bend thy forehead now, to take my kisses!

Lift in love thy dark and splendid eye: Thou art glad when Ha.s.san mounts the saddle,-- Thou art proud he owns thee: so am I.

Let the Sultan bring his boasted horses, Prancing with their diamond-studded reins; They, my darling, shall not match thy fleetness When they course with thee the desert plains!

Let the Sultan bring his famous horses, Let him bring his golden swords to me,-- Bring his slaves, his eunuchs, and his harem; He would offer them in vain for thee.

We have seen Damascus, O my beauty!

And the splendor of the Pashas there: What's their pomp and riches? Why, I would not Take them for a handful of thy hair!

Another stirring poem of the East is ”Tyre.”

The wild and windy morning is lit with lurid fire; The thundering surf of ocean beats on the rocks of Tyre,-- Beats on the fallen columns and round the headlands roars, And hurls its foamy volume along the hollow sh.o.r.es, And calls with hungry clamor, that speaks its long desire: ”Where are the s.h.i.+ps of Tars.h.i.+sh, the mighty s.h.i.+ps of Tyre?”