A Poem by Jefferson Tiberius Faulkmore

Quite recently these pages featured a brief biographical account of minor poet Jefferson Tiberius Faulkmore.  At the time we were unable to offer any samples of Mr. Faulkmore's poetical output, but this has since been remedied.  One of our readers was kind enough to send us the following composition, to our knowledge never before published and under the condition of anonymity,  so that an impression can be given of Mr. Faulkmore's style.  We are most grateful to this unknown lover of versification and neither can nor will reveal his or her identity.  The poem is given no title.

Although the roses wither

 That round Love’s bower grew,

My fancy wanders thither,

Their naked stems to view;

And memory seems to render

Their forms still fresh and fair,

As moonlight gives a splendor

To branches bleak and bare.

Although the wild harp slumbers

That echoed from that bower,

I've treasured the sweet numbers

To cheer this lonely hour;

And while hope's strains of gladness

Seem destined to depart,

Fond memory's tones of sadness

Still linger round the heart.

And though I'm doomed to wander

Far from that happy spot,

The vision strikes the fonder,

As ne'er to be forgot;

For hope may gild to-morrow

With beams not meant to last,

But memory loves to borrow

The radiance of the past.

J. T. Faulkmore, November 1824