The Pacific Monthly/Volume 3/Recently Discovered Unpublished Poems of Sam L. Simpson
Recently Discovered Unpublished Poems of Sam L Simpson.
OREGON'S GREATEST POET.
Courtesy of "Oregon Native Sons."
To Editor Pacific Monthly—
Since the death of Oregon's gifted poet, S. L. Simpson, I notice a revival of interest in his charming poesy. To help it along, I enclose some specimens that I believe have never been in print. During the winter of 1879 I had the honor and pleasure of entertaining our "poet laureate" at my bachelor quarters on Williams creek, Josephine county, and he then and there, through my urging and advice, undertook and carried through the work of collecting and preparing a volume of his poems for publication. He did not have in his possession a single scrap of the many gems he had scattered broadcast to our Western breezes. I had tmny of his choicer poems, however, carefully pasted away in a scranbook, which, with others pro- cured from different sources, formed the nucleus for an interesting volume.
It was a part of the programme that he was to indite some new pieces to go with it; but so dilatory was he in getting his muse in right temper for the fray, that I began to think the additions from this source would not be large. When he did get down to work, however, his industry was what amazed me. I thought he would never stop. Many
of his best poems were written on that occa- sion, with anything but poetical surroundings to inspire his verse, so that when he left Josephine county he carried with him a com- pleted volume of resplendent song. My own valued usufruct of the performance consisted in several first-draft copies of the new pieces. This will explain how I came to be cus- todian of SO' much of his manuscript. The finished product which he intended for pub- lication, of course, was often different from the first-draft copy, but in the absence of the ripened fruit some idea of its quality may be formed from the specimens we have at our command. But his book, so far as I am ad- vised, never saw the light of publication day. The printing-house that undertook its pub- lication, I believe, failed, after it had the entire volume in type.
"Dashings of the Oregon" was to have been the title of the book, suggested by Bry- ant's beautiful lines: "Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolis the Oregon, and hears no sound
Save its own dashings. "
His preface you will find enclosed with this communication.
Very truly yours,
Wm. W. Fidler. Grant's Pass, Feb. 20, 1900.
Preface to Book of Poems by Sam L. Simpson.
Where the kings of the mountains are lifted
In an armor of silver and pearl, And the shadows of ages are drifted
In the banners the forests unfurl, Where the Oregon's gathering waters
Go down to the strife of the sea, And Willamette meanders and loiters
By many a rose-clustered lea, In the regions of Hesper — the starlands
Abloom in the gold-gated West, I have crowned a wild muse with these gar- lands —
The rue-leaves along with the rest. In the chaplets of verse that I bring her
Some strain you may haply prolong; Then to me is the joy of the singer,
And to you — the delight of the song. Love Will Surely Come To-morrow.
In a chamber rich with wedded color
A maiden loosed her lustrous hair,
Like a young moon meshed in threaded sun-
light
Her beauty throbbed in the tressy snare.
Oh, she was fair as a rose-lipped lily —
A rosy marble of molded song,
And around her lips fond thoughts were humming
Like sweet-faint bees that feast too long.
Love will surely come tomorrow,
Even now his glowing feet
Dash the dappled shore of darkness
Into blushes warm and sweet,
And his wavering, ruby arrow
Pledges heaven to me tomorrow.
Awhile she stood in the rippled splendor
Of amber tresses all unbound.
And the irised clouds of castled dreamland
Ever her sea-deep soul surround.
And the dear eyes drooped with a sudden
languor,
And over her curving lips a shade
Of far, faint trouble fell and flitted.
As she gathered her hair in a careless braid.
Love will surely come tomorrow;
But if love inconstant be
Death had better wear my favor
As a faithful knight to me;
Better, if love assail with sorrow,
Death should be my guest tomorrow.
And the twin-sphered bosom, like camelias,
White-clustered round twin buds of rose,
Now loose a gilded swarm of star-beams
To feed upon her sweet repose;
As the lashes, brown as twilight shadows,
Droop softly o'er the sapphire eyes,
And around her lips the bashful dimple
Of love's young hope entranced lies.
Love will surely come tomorrow;
All the roses at the gate
Lean their dewy heads together
As they whisper, "Dream and wait!"
Many maids a wreath will borrow
When they greet their loves tomorrow."
And the moon uprose: her slender sickle
From steep to steep was handed on.
And all the harvest gold of midnight
In sheafy splendor showered down:
An angel, from the fretted casement
Of one far star, on wings of pearl,
Kent tryst with her, upon her bosom
One moment lay his fraerrant curl.
Love will surely come tomorrow;
Whom the angels kiss at night.
'Neath the vermeil arch of morning
Ever find their soul's delight —
Never more a doubt will harrow,
Love will surely come tomorrow.
And the morning broke, its beryl billow
Fringed with scarlet foam outspread,
And the day had burst its dewy calyx,
And flamed in blossom overhead;
But the maiden, pale as some wan flower,
In whose pure chalice love had burned
Its magic perfumes, lay unlitten
Heart and hope to ashes turned.
Death will often claim the morrow
We have wreathen with desire,
Often hope but decks the altar
Where her flames at last expire.
Yet, if love assail with sorrow,
Death were truer king tomorrow.
Forever.
The temples of youth are decaying
In Beutah, the beautiful vale,
And my life has been wearily straying
Away from its beautiful pale,
Where the waters of Marah are sobbing
The sorrow ot desolate years —
The sorrow and tremulous throbbing
Of hopes that have darkened to fears.
Forever, forever, forever,
The dolorous song of the river,
The wail of the river of tears.
In Beulah, a ring-belted river,
That danced in a garland of pearl,
First sang the refrain of forever
With many a wimple and swirl,
And the flag-flowers bent in the rushes
For a touch of the fanciful stream,
And the roses in redolent blushes
Were aflame with the magical dream.
Forever, forever, forever,
Was the song of the ring-belted river,
The refrain of a beautiful theme.
And love, with red lips, in the pauses
Of passion took up the refrain,
And the birds, in their rapturous clauses
Of silence to listen were fain;
But the leaves in a silvery quiver
Of mystery whispered the breeze
That a rainbow of crimson would ever
Rekindle the blossom of ease.
Forever, forever, forever.
Was the song of the jubilant river,
In the odorous haunts of the bees.
Where the mountains, in desolate places,
Are kneeling, bare-kneed, in the sand,
And my Sphinxes, with mystical faces,
Are gazing in revery grand — ■
The garlands I twined by the river
Are fillets of flame on my brow,
And the crystalline chime of forever
Is the dirge of Elysium now.
Forever, forever, forever,
Alas, for the musical river
That sang me the treacherous vow.
The stars, on their cold eminences,
May weave immortelles of the light,
But my soul, in its vapor of senses,
Is crowned with the sorrow of night;
And the oceans may chant, as they follow
The glittering shield of the moon,
But their music is weary and hollow —
A gloomy, unsyllabled rune.
Forever, forever, forever,
Is a lonesome refrain, if it sever
A soul from the loves of its June.
There's an odor of death in the flowers
That droop in this chaplet of mine;
Believe me, in sunnier hours
They breathed an aroma divine —
And so I shall wear them forever,
Thus drying in garlands of death,
As I turn with sick lips and a shiver
From the kiss of a following wraith.
Forever, forever, forever,
Is the song of a shadowless river
That shall heal the old sorrows of faith.
The Indian "Arabian Nights."
Began in September, 1899. — (Conclusion.)
By H S. LYMAN.
I N THE legendary lore of the Tlah- tsops all objects, the air, the water, the earth and rocks and trees are endowed with life and intelligence.
For instance, the roar of the sea was not to them the sound of the waves breaking upon the shore, but the voice of a spirit chained in depths of the ocean who clamored to be free. When the wind was from the south the captive spirit roared for storm. When it veered to the north he roared for fair weather. The story of his captivity was this:
In the beginning the earth was inhab- ited by mighty giants — cheatcos — who were man monsters. This spirit was a cheatco, but in the days when he lived in that form his race had all but vanished, and the sight of him filled the minds of men with terror. When they heard him passing through the distant forest on a still day, striking down trees with his staff made of dead men's bones, they were like to die of fear. At last a young war- rior, braver than his fellows, plotted to free the land from the presence of this terrible monster. The warrior was aided in this undertaking by the friendly ele- ments, and the cheatco was cleverly lured into a tide stream and carried out to sea. where he was securely fettered, but with the privilege of roaming from north to south and back again along the coast. And you can hear him to this day, on a still afternoon, or a breathless morning, drag his clanking chains through the heavy surf. It is a sound that always portends a change in the weather.
Of the winds themselves, who were spirits, the Tlah-tsops had many traditions. The contention of the northwest wind, the southwest and the east wind, with their sons and daughters, was a sto ry told in many chapters, and drawn out by good story-tellers to a great length. Of the storms, too, and the clouds, and the thunder bird whose eye flashed light- ning, and whose outspread wings dark- ened the sky, they told countless tales. They gave minute descriptions of the nest of the thunder bird on the summit of Swalla-la-chast and told of its excur- sions to the sea where it fished for whales.
But the stories of the rocks, those lonely sentinels along the seashore or river stretches, now shrouded in mist or curtained in cloud, or again gilded ana resplendent in the sunlight, were perhaps the favorite subjects of all. Each had its legend. They were said to be human souls fixed in these rude rock forms in punishment for some transgression.
A group of rocks off Tillamook Head were a man and his familv, who had com- mitted some unpardonable follv and were turned to stone bv the exasperated pow- er. A rock off Chinook was a girl who shamelesslv bathed in the river. There was a higher power, not highest, but