president of that historic association,
the German Friendly Society, still existing, a century and a quarter
old. We find his name first on the roll of the German Fusiliers of
Charleston, volunteers formed in May, 1775, for the defense of the
country, immediately on hearing of the battle of Lexington. Again in
the succeeding generation, in the Seminole war and in the peril of
St. Augustine, the German Fusiliers were commanded by his son, Captain
William Henry Timrod, who was the father of the poet, and who himself
published a volume of poems in the early part of the century. He was
the editor of a literary periodical published in Charleston, to which
he himself largely contributed. He was of strong intellect and delicate
feelings, and an ardent patriot.

Some of the more striking of the poems of the elder Timrod are the
following. Washington Irving said of these lines that Tom Moore had
written no finer lyric:--

To Time, the Old Traveler

They slander thee, Old Traveler,
Who say that thy delight
Is to scatter ruin, far and wide,
In thy wantonness of might:
For not a leaf that falleth
Before thy restless wings,
But in thy flight, thou changest it
To a thousand brighter things.

Thou passest o'er the battlefield
Where the dead lie stiff and stark,
Where naught is heard save the vulture's scream,
And the gaunt wolf's famished bark;
But thou hast caused the grain to spring
From the blood-enriched clay,
And the waving corn-tops seem to dance
To the rustic's merry lay.

Thou hast strewed the lordly palace
In ruins on the ground,
And the dismal screech of the owl is heard
Where the harp was wont to sound;
But the selfsame spot thou coverest
With the dwellings of the poor,
And a thousand happy hearts enjoy
What _ONE_ usurped before.

'T is true thy progress layeth
Full many a loved one low,
And for the brave and beautiful
Thou hast caused our tears to flow;
But always near the couch of death
Nor thou, nor we can stay;
_AND THE BREATH OF THY DEPARTING WINGS,
DRIES ALL OUR TEARS AWAY!_

The Mocking-Bird

Nor did lack
Sweet music to the magic of the scene:
The little crimson-breasted Nonpareil
Was there, his tiny feet scarce bending down
The silken tendril that he lighted on
To pour his