So through that glowing August on Copse Hill the two Southern poets
walked and talked and built their shrine to the shining Olympic
goddess to whom their lives were dedicated.

When summer had wrapped about her the purple and crimson glories of
her brilliant life and drifted into the tomb of past things, Timrod
left the friend of his heart alone with the "soft wind-angels" and
memories of "that quiet eve"

When, deeply, thrillingly,
He spake of lofty hopes which vanquish Death;
And on his mortal breath
A language of immortal meanings hung
That fired his heart and tongue.

[Illustration: HOUSE WHERE TIMROD LIVED DURING HIS LAST YEARS
1108 Henderson Street, Columbia, S.C.]

Impelled by circumstances to leave the pines before their inspiring
breath had given him of their life, he had little strength to renew
the battle for existence, and of the sacrifice of his possessions to
which he had been forced to resort he writes to Hayne: "We have eaten
two silver pitchers, one or two dozen silver forks, several sofas,
innumerable chairs, and a huge bedstead."

We should like to think of life as flowing on serenely in that pretty
cottage on Henderson Street, Columbia, its wide front veranda crowned
with a combed roof supported by a row of white columns. In its cool
dimness we may in fancy see the nature-loving poet at eventide looking
into the greenery of a friendly tree stretching great arms lovingly to