Class. 
 Book. 
 
 'ID 
 
\a t h 
 
 POEMS, ^ 
 
 SACRED, PASSIONATE, AND HUMOROUS, 
 
 NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 
 
 COMPLETE EDITION. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 CLARK & MAYNARD, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 5 BARCLAY STREET, 
 
 1873. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 186S, by 
 
 CLARK & MAYNARD, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Uniied States for the 
 Southern District of New York. 
 
 JUN 5 190? 
 
 /^-y^// 
 
 fi 
 
^ 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 Nathaniel Parker Willis was born in Portland, 
 Maine, January 20, 1806. His father was the venerable 
 Nathaniel Willis, who in 1816 founded the Boston Re- 
 corder — the first religious newspaper ever published. The 
 future poet received an excellent preparatory education, 
 principally at the Boston Latin School, and then entered 
 Yale College, where he graduated in 1827. Previously 
 to this he had written and published anonymously some 
 poems of great merit, chiefly of a religious character, and 
 won a prize of fifty dollars — at that time a very liberal 
 one — for the best poem, ojQfered by the publishers of one 
 of the annuals. Soon after leaving college, Mr. Willis 
 collected and published his poems in a volume, which 
 attracted no little attention. Some of the pieces in this 
 collection are not unworthy to rank with the productions 
 of the author's matured genius. 
 
 Mr. Willis's tastes and talents induced him, instead of 
 studying a profession, to devote himself to hterature as 
 a pursuit, and soon after his graduation, he assumed tlie 
 
V BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 editorship of the " Legendary," a series of volumes of 
 tales published by S. Gr. Goodrich. He next established, 
 in Boston, the American MontfUy Magazine, and rallied 
 around it a circle of talented contributors, whom he 
 inspired with his own ambition and zeal. To the pages 
 of this work he contributed many brilliant papers ; and 
 its Editor's Table, in which he treated of current literary 
 topics, of art, books, and personal experience, was emi- 
 nently sparkling and readable. At the expiration of two 
 years, the Magazine was merged into the New York 
 Mirror, the most flourishing literary journal of the day, 
 conducted by George P. Morris, and Mr. Willis gratified 
 a long-cherished desire by visiting Europe. His first im- 
 pressions of the Old "World, received at the most enjoy- 
 able period of life, were communicated to the MiiTor in 
 a series of sparkling letters, which met with a prodigious 
 success. Europe had not then " been done to death ;" 
 and dashing sketches of its scenery, its art, its distin- 
 guished men and women, as viewed by an ardent and 
 gifted American, young, impressionable, with the keen 
 perceptions of the poet and artist, came upon the public 
 like a series of revelations. The style of these sketches 
 was admirable, and possessed such a fascination that it 
 was impossible to begin a detached extract without fin- 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKEICH. V 
 
 ishing the paragraph to the close. Mr. Willis was well 
 received abroad, and enjoj'ed facilities which gave him 
 the entree of the highest and best circles of society on 
 the continent and in England. His portraits of prom- 
 inent personages of the time, — such as Moore, Lady 
 Blessington, D'Israeli, Bulwer, D'Orsay, — were graphic 
 and artistic. In European society Mr. Willis well sus- 
 tained the reputation of a refined and high-toned Amer- 
 ican gentleman, and in certain trying circumstances 
 manifested a chivalrous spirit which did bim the high- 
 est honor. 
 
 While residing in England, in 1835, Mr. Willis mar- 
 ried Mary Leighton Stace, a daughter of Commissary 
 General William Stace, commander of the Eoyal Arsenal 
 at Woolwich, an officer who had seen much service, 
 and greatly distinguished himself at Waterloo. 
 
 Returning to this country, Mr. Willis purchased a 
 small farm in the valley of the Susquehanna, where he 
 built a pretty cottage, in which h* hoped to pass the 
 remainder of his days in rural and literary employment. 
 His "Letters from Under a Bridge," written from " Glen- 
 mary," contain some of the most beautiful and truthful 
 pictures of American country life ever penned. With 
 a felicity which only belongs to high art, he wove out 
 
VI BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 of the simplest materials, out of quiet landscapes, and 
 everyday incidents, spells which have entranced readers 
 of all tastes. A daughter, Imogen, was born to Mr. 
 "Willis in this sylvan solitude. 
 
 But trouble came to the inmates of Glenmary. Mrs. 
 Willis's father died — Mr. Willis's publishers failed ; and 
 it became necessary for the dreamer to forsake the quiet, 
 vale of the Susquehanna, and plunge once more into the 
 battle of life. Removing to New York, he established, 
 in connection with the late Dr. Porter, a literary journal 
 called the Corsair. During a brief visit to Europe, 
 Mr. Willis engaged Mr. Thackeray among his foreign 
 contributors, and while there published a volume of his 
 poetry and prose, under the title of "Loiterings of 
 Travel," two plays, " Bianca Visconti," and " Tortesa the 
 Usurer," the latter of which nas proved successful on the 
 stage, and at the same time wrote the letter press 
 for two illustrated works published by George Virtue, 
 descriptive of the scenery of the United States and 
 Ireland. 
 
 Finding, on his return to America, that Dr. Porter 
 had become discouraged with the Corsair^ and aban- 
 doned it, he joined his former partner, Gen. Morris, in 
 a paper called the Evening Mirror. Intense application 
 
• BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. Vll 
 
 soon began to tell upon his health, and the shock occa- 
 sioned by the death of his wife completely prostrated him. 
 He again went abroad, but after a brief stay, during 
 which he was attacked by a brain fever, he returned 
 to this country. The Evening Mirror, the daily prepar- 
 ation of which was found to be too trying a task both 
 to Mr. Willis and Gen. Morris, was transferred to other 
 hands, and they estabUshed the Home Journal^ a literary 
 weekly, which from the outset was eminently successful 
 From the date of its commencement^ Mr. Willis con- 
 centrated air his efforts on this publication, the popu- 
 larity of which amply repaid the loving care bestowed 
 xipon its columns. 
 
 In 1846 Mr. Willis married Cornelia, only daughter 
 of Hon. Joseph Grinnell, of New Bedford, Mass. Their 
 residence from that time until his decease, was on a 
 charming estate on the banks of the Hudson, above 
 West Point, to which he gave the name of " Idlewild." 
 Here he divided his time between his literary and do- 
 mestic cares,, the culture and the adornment of his estate, 
 and the regimen and exercise which his infirm health 
 demanded, with an occasional visit to New York, to 
 glance at the movements of society and art in that great 
 city, gathering from all his experiences, material for those 
 
 i 
 
Vlll BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 charming essays and letters which graced the editorial 
 columns of the Home Journal. 
 
 Few American authors were known to a wider circ'e 
 of readers than Mr. Willis. He came before the public f( r 
 the first time at a moment when our literature was 
 passing from the delicate bloom of infancy to the florid 
 and lusty vigor of early youth. Everything was in a 
 state of transition ; everything was unsettled ; but every- 
 thing was rich with the glow of dawning promise. Irving 
 was in the fullness of his fame; Bryant had won the 
 vernal honors which have since ripened into glorious 
 maturity ; R. H. Dana had struck a chord in many hearts 
 by the mystic strains of his melancholy music; Percival 
 was hailed by waiting and sanguine sp^.rits as the morning- 
 star of a new poetical day ; Pierpont had gathered bright 
 laurels on the banks where '' Hermon sheds its dews," 
 and "decked his couch with Sharon's deathless rose." 
 Everett had returned from his quest of knowledge in 
 distant lands, radiant with enthusiasm and hope; Cban- 
 ning had sent an electric spark into the bosom of society - 
 by his seraphic discussion of worldly themes amidst the 
 solemnities of the pulpit ; Lyman Beecher was disturbing 
 the repose of the dry bones in the valley of vision by 
 his athletic sledge-hammer blows on the heresies of 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. IX 
 
 Boston ; Longfellow was beginning to gather around 
 him- a cluster of gracious sympathies by the tender pathos 
 of his imagination and the sweet felicities of his diction. 
 
 Mr. Wilhs first attracted notice from those who were 
 eagerly watching every sign of promise in our youthful 
 literature, by his scriptural poems. He had been brought 
 up under the robust religious influences of New England 
 orthodoxy ; the bracing air of Andover and Park street 
 filled his veins with the ruddy drops of stern conviction ; 
 from the lips of his admirable mother, who was beloved 
 and honored by all who knew her, the lessons of piety 
 distilled upon his heart; and if, in later life, the early 
 cloud and morning dew left no trace of their influence on 
 the character, they gave an impulse to his poetical nature, 
 and suggested chaste and lovely images to his fancy. His 
 memory was familiar with the language of the Bible. His 
 heart had been touched by its simple grandeur. The 
 domestic scenes of the old Hebrew life kindled his warm- 
 est sympathy, and attached themselves to his dearest 
 associations with home. Gifted with the art of clothing 
 those scenes in the splendor of modern verse, without 
 impairing their racy, antique flavor, he threw a charm 
 around his descriptions which fascinated alike the lovers 
 of the Bible and the amateurs of poetry. Uis success 
 
X BIOGRAPHICAL SKliTCH. 
 
 was perfect. His name became a household word in 
 many families who had learned from his sweet utterances 
 that the sentiment of piety was no foe to the indulgence 
 of the imagination. He was welcomed as a new star in 
 the horizon of American letters. His sense of beauty in 
 outward things was extraordinary. His eye was strongly 
 affected by the harmonies of color and form. In dress, 
 in furniture, in every kind of decoration, he had a lively 
 instinct of the fit and the becoming. If his personal 
 tastes had a tendency towards the fantastic, it was an ex- 
 ception to the general soundness of his judgment in 
 aesthetic affairs. 
 
 Among the traits of Mr. Willis's personal character, which 
 his friends can dwell on with the warmest satisfaction, 
 was the vigorous persistence with which he engaged in 
 the battle of life, in spite of an accumulation of physical 
 infirmities. For many years previous to his death he had 
 enjoyed scarcely an interval of good health. He was 
 often subject not only to the languors of chronic disease, 
 but to the agonies of sharp and sudden attacks. His 
 endurance of pain was like that of a martyr. His suffei- 
 ings often furnished him with the theme of his most 
 brilliant essays. He had the rare gift of bringing his 
 private experiences before the public without the appear- 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. XI 
 
 ance of obtrusive egotism. With the exception of Henry- 
 Heine, we hardly know an instance of a man of letters 
 being doomed to such protracted torments from bodily 
 disease. The power with which he bore up under such 
 terrible inflictions presents a rare example of courage and 
 fortitude — the genuine elements of heroism. Let those 
 who view him merely as the gay and elegant man about 
 town, the retailer of sparkling bon-mots, and the writer of 
 frivolous superficial humor, remember the days of dark- 
 ness which he so bravely encountered, and the dauntless 
 zeal with which he wrought at his post until bis counte- 
 nance was changed in the shadow of death. 
 
 Mr. Willis, moreover, exhibited a certain kindliness and 
 generosity of disposition, which, if it rested on no pro- 
 found basis in his nature or his principles, gave an interest 
 to his companionship and secured him the cordial friend- 
 ship of men with whose graver and more rigid traits of 
 character he habitually cherished but little sympathy. His 
 circle of intimate acquaintance included persons of the 
 widest contrast in opinions, manners, and cultivation. 
 Among them were to be found the popular preacher, the 
 erudite divine, the stern reformer, and men of mark in 
 political life and the world of business. He dispensed the 
 hospitalities of Idlewild — a name which his pen has made 
 
Xll BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 classical — ^with elegance and liberality. His door wa 
 open wide even to the casual visitor, and to " the me. 
 who sought him he was sweet as summer." Free fror 
 the faintest spark of hterary jealousy, he tbok no part i: 
 the "quarrels of autlwrs," looked with cheerful com 
 placency on the success of his rivals, and always jaad j 
 friendly word for the youthful aspirants who were strug 
 gling in the lists for distinction in letters. His sympathj 
 with their first timid efforts was often their stepping-ston< 
 to renown. 
 
 He will be remembered, not as a philosopher or a celestia 
 genius; but as a man eminently human, with almost unique 
 endowments, who contributed his share to the good-will 
 cheerful enjoyment, and intellectual life of the present. 
 
 Mr. Willis, as stated, was subject, for several of the latei 
 years of his life, to severe suffering from disease, the seat 
 of which was chiefly in the brain. His decease occurred 
 on the 20th of January, 1867, at Idlewild,. being just 
 sixty-one years of age. His wife and several children sur- 
 vive him. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 SACRED POEMS. 
 
 PAGK 
 
 The Healing of the T-'aughter of Jairus 17 
 
 Thk Lepkr 2^ 
 
 David's Grief for his Guild 21 
 
 The Sacrifice of Abraham 32 
 
 The Suunamite 86 
 
 Jephtuaus Daoghtkr 40 
 
 Absalom 44 
 
 Christ's Entrance into Jerusalem 48 
 
 Baptism of Christ 51 
 
 Scene in Gethsemane 63 
 
 The Widow of N ain 65 
 
 Hagar in the Wilderness 58 
 
 KizPAH with hkr Sons, (the day before they were hanged 
 
 ON GlBEAU) 63 
 
 Lazarus and Mary 66 
 
 Christ blessing little Children 7S 
 
 Christ's Mother 78 
 
 Hannah AND Samuel 81 
 
 A Bible Story for Mothers 86 
 
 Thoughts while making tub Grave of a new born Cuild... 90 
 On tue Departure of the Rev. Mr. White from his Parish, 
 
 when chosen President of Wabash College 93 
 
 BtRTH-DAY VBRflES , 95 
 
XiV CONTENTS. 
 
 PAOB 
 
 To MY Mother from the Apennines 98 
 
 Lines on leaving Europe 99 
 
 A TRUE Incident 102 
 
 The Mother TO HER Child 104 
 
 A Thought over a Cradle 106 
 
 On a Picture of a Girl Leading her blind Motheii thkougu 
 
 the Wood 107 
 
 Contemplation 108 
 
 On the Death of a Missionary 110 
 
 On the Picture of a "Child tired of Play" 113 
 
 A Child's First Impression of a Stab 115 
 
 On witnessing a Baptism 116 
 
 Eeverie at Glenmary ill 
 
 To a City Pigeon 119 
 
 The Belfry Pigeon 119 
 
 Saturday Afternoon 121 
 
 The Sabbath 122 
 
 Dedication Hymn 124 
 
 Hymn 125 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The Dying Alohymist 129 
 
 Pakuhasius 134 
 
 The Scholar of Thebet Ben Khorat 140 
 
 The Wife's Appeal 151 
 
 Melanie ICO 
 
 Lord I von and his Daughter 177 
 
 To Ermengarde 11)0 
 
 Fragment of a Poem, written for a Mother, after the Death 
 
 OF a Beloved Daughter 197 
 
 Beauty after Death 198 
 
 Wakin<} Dream in Sickness 199 
 
 Unseen Spirits 200- 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 XV 
 
 FAOB 
 
 To Charles Roux, of Switzkkland 201 
 
 The Confessional. 202 
 
 Florence Gray 206 
 
 The Pity of the Park Fountain. 208 
 
 •'Chamber Scene" 210 
 
 To A Stolen Ring 211 
 
 To Her who has Hopes for Me. 212 
 
 The Death of Harrison 214 
 
 " She was not there " 216 
 
 Fail me not Thou 218 
 
 Spirit-Whispers 219 
 
 To M , from Abroad 220 
 
 SiTNRisB Thoughts at the Close of a Ball. 221 
 
 To a Face Beloved 222 
 
 Better Moments 223 
 
 The Annoyer 226 
 
 Andres Request to Washington 228 
 
 Dawn 229 
 
 Extract from a Poem Delivered at the Departure of the 
 
 Senior Class of Yale Collegb in 1827. 230 
 
 The Elms of New Haven 234 
 
 The Thought Angel 243 
 
 Despondency in Spring 247 
 
 To Laura W , Two Years of Age 247 
 
 To 249 
 
 The Torn Hat 250 
 
 On the Death of a Young Girl 252 
 
 May 26S 
 
 The Solitary 254 
 
 Sonnet 256 
 
 Acrostic — Sonnet 256 
 
 The Soldier's Widow 257 
 
 Starlight 25S 
 
 On tub Death of Edward Payson, D. D 259 
 
 January 1, 1828 , 261 
 
 January 1, 1S29 262 
 
 Psyche Before the Tribunal of Ventts 268 
 
 On Seeing a Bbvutiful Boy at Play 265 
 
IVl CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Heeo 267 
 
 Idleness 268 
 
 Thk Burial of the Champion of hi8 Class at Yale College. 271 
 
 Spring 273 
 
 Thirty-five 274 
 
 KoARiNG Brook 276 
 
 An Apology 277 
 
 To Helen in a Huff 278 
 
 City Lyrics 279 
 
 To the Lady in the Chemisette with Black Buttons 281 
 
 The Lady in the White Dress, whom I Helped into the Om- 
 nibus 283 
 
 The White Chip Hat ,. 284 
 
 Tou Know if it was You 286 
 
 Love in a Cottage 287 
 
 The Declaration 288 
 
 Poem Delivered at Brown University, Sept. 6, 1831 289 
 
 Birthday in a Foreign Isle 801 
 
 To a Bride 302 
 
 The Broken Bracelet 303 
 
 To a Coquette 305 
 
 To Julia Grisi 305 
 
 The Table of Emerald 306 
 
 Reveries 303 
 
 Thb Lady Jane 313 
 
SACKED POEMS. 
 
 f 
 
SACRED POEMS. 
 
 THE HEALING OF THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUSe 
 
 Freshly the cool breath of the coming eve 
 Stole through the lattice, and the dying girl 
 Felt it upon her forehead. She had lain 
 Since the hot noontide in a breathless trance — 
 Her thin pale fingers clasped within the hand 
 Of the heart-broken Ruler, and her breast, 
 Like the dead marble, white and motionless. 
 The shadow of a leaf lay on her lips, 
 And, as it stirr'd with the awakening wind, 
 The dark hds lifted from her languid eyes. 
 And her slight fingers moved,, and heavily 
 She turned upon her pillow. He was there — 
 The same loved, tireless watcher, and she look'd 
 Into his face until her sight grew dim 
 With the fast-falling tears; and, with a sigh 
 Of tremulous weakness murmuring his name. 
 She gently drew his hand upon her lips. 
 And kiss'd it as she wept. The old man sunk 
 Upon his knees, and in the drapery 
 Of the rich curtains buried up his face ; 
 And when the twilight fell, the silken folds 
 Stirr'd with his prayer, but the slight hand he held 
 Had ceased its pressure — and he could not hear, 
 2* 
 
18 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 In the dead, u'.ter sileuce, that a breath 
 Came through her nostrils — and her temples gave 
 To his nice touch no pulse — and, at her mouth, 
 He held the lightest curl that on her neck 
 Lay with a mocking beauty, and his gaze 
 Ached with its deathly stillness. ***** 
 
 ****** j^ ^yas night — 
 And, softly, o'er the Sea of Gahlee, 
 Danced the breeze-ridden ripples to the shore, 
 Tipp'd with the silver sparkles of the moon. 
 The breaking waves played low upon the beach 
 Their constant music, but the air beside 
 Was still as starlight, and the Saviour's voice. 
 In its rich cadences unearthly Sweet, 
 Seem'd like some just-born harmony in the air, 
 Waked by the power of wisdom. On a rock. 
 With the broad moonlight falling on his brow, 
 He stood and taught the people. At his feet 
 Lay his small scrip, and pilgrim's scallop-shell, 
 And staff — for they had waited by the sea 
 Till he came o'er from Gadarene, and pray'd 
 For his wont teachings as he came to land. 
 His hair was parted meekly on his brow. 
 And the long curls from off liis shoulders fell. 
 As he lean'd forward earnestly, and still 
 The same calm cadence, passionless and deep — 
 And in his looks the same mild majesty — 
 And in his mien the sadness mix'd with power- 
 Filled them with love and wonder. Suddenly, 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS, 19 
 
 As on his words entrancedly they bur 
 
 The crowd divided, and among them stood 
 
 Jairus the Ruler. With his flowing robe 
 
 Gathered in haste about his loins, he came, 
 
 And fix'd his eyes on Jesus. Closer drew 
 
 The twelve disciples to their Master's side ; 
 
 And silently the people shrunk away, 
 
 And left the haughty Ruler in the midst 
 
 Alone. A moment longer on the face 
 
 Of the meek Nazarene he kept his gaze, 
 
 And, as the twelve looked on him, by the light 
 
 Of the clear moon they saw a glistening tear 
 
 Steal to his silver beard ; and, drawing nigh 
 
 Unto the Saviour's feet, he took the hem 
 
 Of his coarse mantle, and with trembling hands 
 
 Press'd it upon his lids, and murmur'd low, 
 
 ^^ Master I r;-.y daughter T — ****** 
 
 * * * * ^e rpug same silvery light, 
 That shone upon the lone rock by the sea. 
 Slept on the Ruler's lofty capitals. 
 As at the door he stood, and welcomed in 
 Jesus and his disciples. All was still. 
 The echoing vestibule gave back the slide 
 Of their loose sandals, and the arrowy beam 
 Of moonlight, slanting to the marble floor, 
 Lay like a spell of silence in the rooms. 
 As Jairus led^hem on. With hushing steps 
 He trod the winding stair ; but ere ne touch'd 
 The latchet, from within a whisper came. 
 
20 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 " Trouble the Master not — for she is dead /" 
 And his faint hand fell nerveless at his side, 
 And his steps falter' d, and his broken voice 
 Choked in its utterance ; — but a gentle hand 
 Was laid upon his arm, and in his ear 
 The Saviour's voice sank thrillingly and low, 
 " She is not dead — but sleepeth.'^ 
 
 They passed in. 
 The spice-lamps in the alabaster urns 
 Burned dimly, and the white and fragrant smoke 
 Curl'd indolently on the chamber walls. 
 The silken curtains slumbered in their folds — 
 Not even a tassel stirring in the air — 
 And as the Saviour stood beside the bed, 
 And prayed inaudibly, the Ruler heard 
 The quickening division of his breath 
 As he grew earnest inwardly. There came 
 A gradual brightness o'er his calm, sad fa'je ; 
 And, drawing nearer to the bed, he moved 
 The silken curtains silently apart, 
 And look'd upon the maiden. 
 
 Like a form 
 Of matchless sculpture in her sleep she lay — 
 The linen vesture folded on her breast, 
 And over it her white transparent hands. 
 The blood still rosy in their tapering nails. 
 A line of pearl ran through her parted lips, 
 And in her nostrils, spiritually thin. 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 21 
 
 The breathing curve was mockingly Hke Hfe j 
 And round beneath the faintly tinted skin 
 Ran the light branches of the azure veins ; 
 And on her cheek the jet lash overlay, 
 Matching the arches pencill'd on her brow. 
 Her hair had been unbound, and falling loose 
 Upon her pillow, hid her small round ears 
 In curls of glossy blackness, and about 
 Her polished neck, scarce touching it, they hung, 
 Like airy shadows floating as they slept. 
 'Twas heavenly beautiful. The Saviour raised 
 Her hand from off her bosom, and spread out 
 The snowy fingers in his palm, and said, 
 ^'■Maiden I Arise /" — and suddenly a flush 
 Shot o'er her forehead, and along her lips 
 And through her cheek the rallied color ran ; 
 And the still outline of her graceful form 
 Stirred in the linen vesture ; and she clasp'd 
 The Saviour's hand, and fixing her dark eyes 
 Full on his beamincr countenance — arose ! 
 
 THE LEPER 
 
 / • Room for the leper ! Room I" And, 
 The cry pass'd on — " Room for the leper ! Room !". 
 Sunrise was slanting on the city gates 
 
22 AVILLIS'S POEMSe 
 
 Rosy and beautiful, and from the hills 
 The early risen poor were coming in, 
 Duly and cheerfully to their toil, and up 
 Rose the sharp hammer's clink, and the far hum 
 Of moving wheels and multitudes astir, 
 And all that in a city murmur swells — 
 Unheard but by the watcher's weary ear, 
 Aching with night's dull silence, or the sick' 
 Hailing the^ welcome light and sounds that chase 
 The death-like images of the dark away. 
 " Room for the leper I" ''And aside they stood— 
 Matron and child, and pitiless manhood — all 
 Who met him on his way — and let him pass. 
 And onward through the open gate he came, 
 A leper with the ashes on his brow, 
 Sackcloth about his loins, and on his lip 
 A covering, stepping painfully and slew, 
 And with a difficult utterance, like one 
 Whose heart is with an iron nerve put down, 
 Crying, " Unclean I Unclean 1"> 
 
 'Twas now the first, 
 Of the Judean autumn, and the leaves, 
 Whose shadows lay so still upon his path, 
 Had. put their beauty forth beneath the eye 
 Of Judah's palmiest noble. He was young. 
 And eminently beautiful, and life 
 Mantled in eloquent fulness on his lip, 
 And sparkled in his glance ,• and in his mien 
 There was a gracious pride that every eye 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 23 
 
 FoUow'd with benisons — and this was he ! 
 
 With the soft airs of summer there had come 
 
 A torpor oq his frame, which not the speed 
 
 Of his best barb, nor music, nor the blast 
 
 Of the bold huntsman's horn, nor aught that stirs 
 
 The spirit to its bent, might drive away. 
 
 The blood beat not as wont within his veins ; 
 
 Dimness crept o'er his eye ; a drowsy sloth 
 
 Fetter'd his limbs like palsy, and his mien, 
 
 With all its loftiness, seem'd struck with eld. 
 
 Even his voice was changed — a languid i noan 
 
 Taking the place of the clear silver key; 
 
 And brain and sense grew faint, as if the light 
 
 And very air were steep'd in sluggishness. 
 
 He strove with it awhile, as manhood will, 
 
 Ever too proud for weakness, till the rein 
 
 Slacken'd within his grasp, and in its poise 
 
 The arrowy jereed hke an aspen shook. 
 
 Day after day, he lay as if in sleep. 
 
 His skin grew dry and bloodless, and white scales, 
 
 Circled with Uvid purple, cover' d him. 
 
 And then his nails grew black, and fell away 
 
 From the dull flesh about them, and the hues 
 
 Deepen'd beneath the hard unmoisten'd scales, 
 
 And from their edges grew the rank white hair, 
 
 — And Helon was a leper ! 
 
 Bay was breaking, 
 When at the altar of the temple stood 
 The holy priest of God. The incense lamp 
 
24 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 Burn'd with a struggling light, and a low chant 
 
 Swell'd through the hollow arches of tha roof 
 
 Like an articulate wail, and there, alone, 
 
 Wasted to ghastly thinness, Helon knelt. 
 
 The echoes of the melancholy strain 
 
 Died in the distant aisles, and he rose up. 
 
 Struggling with weakness, and bow'd down his head 
 
 Unto the sprinkled ashes, and put off 
 
 His costly raiment for the leper's garb ; 
 
 And with the sackcloth round him, and his lip 
 
 Hid in a loathsome covering, stood still, 
 
 Waiting to hear his doom : — 
 
 Depart ! depart, child 
 Of Israel, from the temple of thy Grod I 
 For He has smote thee with his chastening rod ; 
 
 And to the desert- wild, 
 From all thou lov'st, away thy feet must flee, 
 That from thy plague His people may be free. 
 
 Depart I and come not near 
 The busy mart, the crowded city, more ; 
 Nor set thy foot a human threshold o'er ; 
 
 And stay thou not to hear 
 Voices that call thee in the way ; and fly 
 From all who in the wilderness pass by. 
 
 Wet not thy burning lip 
 In streams that to a human dwelling glide ; 
 Nowrest thee where the covert fountains hide : 
 
WILLISS POEMS. 25 
 
 Nor kneel ztiee down to dip 
 The water where the pilgrim bends to drink, 
 By desert well or river's grassy brink ; 
 
 And pass thou not between 
 The weary traveller and the cooling breeze ; 
 And lie not down to sleep beneath the trees 
 
 Where human tracks are seen ; 
 Nor milk the goat that browseth on the plain, 
 Nor pluck the standing corn, or yellow grain. 
 
 And now depart! and when 
 Thy heart is heavy, and thine eyes are dim, 
 Lift up thy prayer beseechingly to Ilim 
 
 Who, from the tribes of men. 
 Selected thee to feel His chastening rod. 
 Depart! leper! and forget not God! 
 
 And he went forth — alone ! not one of all 
 The many whom he loved, nor she whose name 
 Was woven in the fibres of the heart 
 Breaking within him now, to come and speak 
 Comfort unto him. Yea — he went his way, 
 Sick, and heart-broken, and alone — to die 1 
 For Grod had cursed the leper! 
 
 It was noon, 
 And Helon knelt beside a stagnant pool 
 In the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow, 
 Hot with the burning leprosy, and touch'd 
 3 
 
26 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 The loathsome water to his fever'd lips, 
 Praying that he might be so blest — to die I 
 Footsteps approach' d, and, with no strength to flee, 
 He drew the covering closer on his lip, 
 Crying, '^ Unclean ! unclean !" and in the folds 
 Of the coarse sackcloth shrouding up his face, 
 He fell upon the earth till they should pass. 
 Nearer the Stranger came, and bending o'er 
 The leper's prostrate form, pronounced his name — 
 "Helon!" The voice was like the master-tone 
 Of a rich instrument — most strangely sweet ; 
 And the dull pulses of disease awoke. 
 And for a moment beat beneath the hot 
 And leprous scales with a restoring thrill. 
 "Helon! arise!" and he forgot his curse. 
 And rose and stood before Him. 
 
 Love and awe 
 Mingled in the regard of Helon's eye 
 As he beheld the Stranger, He was not 
 In costly raiment clad, nor on his brow 
 The symbol of a princely lineage wore ; 
 No followers at His back, nor in His hand 
 Buckler, or sword, or spear, — ^yet in his mien 
 Command sat throned serene, and if He smiled^ 
 A kingly condescension graced His lips, 
 The lion would have crouch'd to in his lair. 
 His garb was simple, and His sandals worn • 
 His stature modell'd with a perfect grace ; 
 His countenance the impress of a God, 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS, 2*1 
 
 Toucli'd with the open innocence of a child ; 
 
 His eye wa3 blue and calm, as in the sky 
 
 In the serenest noon ; His hair unshorn 
 
 Fell to his shoulders ; and His curling beard 
 
 The fulness of perfected manhood bore. 
 
 He looked on Helon earnestly awhile, 
 
 As if His heart were moved, and, stooping down, 
 
 He took a Httle water in His hand 
 
 And laved the sufferer's brow, and said, '^Be clean!" 
 
 And lo ! the scales fell from him, and his blood 
 
 Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins. 
 
 And his dry palms grew moist, and on his lips 
 
 The dewy softness of an infant's stole. 
 
 His leprosy was cleansed, and he fell down 
 
 Prostrate at Jesus' feet and worshipp'd him. 
 
 DAVID'S GRIEF FOR HIS CHILD. 
 
 'TwAS daybreak, and the fingers of the dawn 
 
 Drew the night's curtain, and touch'd silently 
 
 The eyeUds of the king. And David woke. 
 
 And robed himself, and pray'd. The inmates, now. 
 
 Of the vast palace were astir, an;l feet 
 
 Glided along the tesselated floors 
 
 "With a pervading murnmr, and the fount 
 
 Whose music had been all the night unheard, 
 
 Play'd as if light had made it audible ; 
 
 And each one, waking, bless'd it unaware- 
 
28 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 The fragrant strife of sunshine with the mom 
 Sweeten'd the air to ecstasy ! and now 
 The king's wont was to he upon his couch 
 Beneath the sky- roof of the inner court, 
 And, shut in from the world, but not from heav'n, 
 Play with his loved son by the fountain's lip ; 
 For, with idolatry confess' d alone 
 To the rapt wires of his reproofless harp. 
 He loved the child of Bathsheba. And when 
 The golden selvedge of his robe was heard 
 Sweeping the marble pavement, from within 
 Broke forth a child's laugh suddenly, and words — 
 Articulate, perhaps, to his heart only — 
 Pleading to come to him. They brought the boy— • 
 An infant cherub, leaping as if used 
 To hover with that motion upon wings, 
 And marvellously beautiful ! His brow 
 Had the inspired up-hft of the king's, 
 And kingly was his infantine regard ; 
 But his ripe mouth was of the ravishing mould 
 Of Bathsheba's — the hue and type of love, 
 Kosy and passionate — and oh, the moist 
 Unfathomable blue of his large eyes 
 Gave out its light as twihght shows a star, 
 And drew the heart of the beholder in I — 
 And tliis was like his mother, 
 
 David's lips 
 Moved with unutter'd blessings, and awhile 
 He closed the hds upon his moisten'd eyes, 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 29 
 
 Aud, with the round cheek of the nestUng boy 
 Press'd to his bosom, sat as if afraid 
 That but the lifting of his Uds might jar 
 The heart-cup's over-fulness. Unobserved, 
 A servant of the outer court had knelt 
 Waiting before him ; and a cloud the while 
 Had rapidly spread o'er the summer heaven ; 
 And, as the chill of the withdrawing sun 
 Fell on the king, he lifted up his eyes 
 And frown'd upon the servant — for that hour 
 Was hallow'd to his heart and his fair child, 
 And none might seek him. And the king arose, 
 And with a troubled countenance look'd up 
 To the fast-gathering darkness; and, behold, 
 The servant bowed himself to earth, and said, 
 "Nathan the prophet cometh from the Lord !" 
 And David's lips grew white, and with a clasp 
 Which wrung a murmur from the frighted child, 
 He drew him to his breast, and covered him 
 With the long foldings of his robe, and said, 
 " I will come forth. Go now !" And lingoringly 
 With kisses on the fair uplifted brow, 
 And mingled words of tenderness and prayer 
 Breaking in tremulous accents from his lips, 
 He gave to them the child, and bowed his head 
 Upon his breast with agony. And so. 
 To hear the errand of the man of Grod, 
 He fearfully went forth. 
 
30 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 It was the morning of tbe seventh day. 
 A hush was in the palace, for all eyes 
 Had woke before the morn ; and they who drew 
 The curtains to let in the welcome hght, 
 Moved in their chambers with unslipper'd feet, 
 And listen'd breathlessly. And still no stir ! 
 The servants who kept watch without the door 
 Sat motionless ; the purple casement-shades 
 From the low windows had been rolled away, 
 To give the child air ; and the flickering light 
 That, all the night, within the spacious court, 
 Had drawn the watcher's eyes to one spot only^ 
 Paled with the sunrise and fled in. 
 
 And hush'd 
 With more than stillness was the room where lay 
 The king's son 6n his mother's breast. His locks 
 Slept at the lips of Bathsheba unstirr'd — 
 So fearfully, with heart and pulse kept down. 
 She watched his breathless slumber. The low moan 
 That from his lips all night broke fitfully, 
 Had silenced with the daybreak ; and a smile — 
 Or something that would fain have been a smile — 
 Play'd in his parted mouth ; and though his lids 
 Hid not the blue of his unconscious eyes, 
 His senses seemed all peacefully asleep, 
 And Bathsheba in silence bless'd the morn — 
 That brought back hope to her ! Bat when the king 
 Heard not the voice of the complaining child, 
 Nor breath from out the room nor foot astir— 
 
WILLIS S P OEMS. 31 
 
 But morning there — so welcomeless and still — 
 
 He groan'd and turn'd upon his face. The nights 
 
 Had wasted ; and the mornings come ; and days 
 
 Crept through the sky, unnumber'd by the king, 
 
 Since the child sicken'd ; and, without the door, 
 
 Upon the bare earth prostrate, he had lain — 
 
 Listening only to the moans that brought 
 
 Their inarticulate tidings, and the voice 
 
 Of Bathsheba, whose pity and caresc, 
 
 In loving utterance all broke with tears, 
 
 Spoke as his heart would speak if he were there, 
 
 And fill'd his prayer with agony. God ! 
 
 To thy bright mercy-seat the way is far ! 
 
 How fail the weak words while the heart keeps or. '. 
 
 And when the spirit, mournfully, at last, 
 
 Kneels at thy throne, how cold, how distantly 
 
 The comforting of friends falls on the ear — 
 
 The anguish they would speak to, gone to Thee ! 
 
 But suddenly the watchers at the door 
 Rose up, and they who ministered within 
 Crept to the threshold and look'd earnestly 
 Where the king lay. And still, while Bathsheba 
 Held the unmoving child upon her knees, 
 The curtains were let down, and all came forth, 
 And, gathering with fearful looks apart. 
 Whispered together. 
 
 And the king arose 
 And gazed on then a moment, and with vo ce 
 
32 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 Of quick, uncertain utterance, he ask'd, 
 
 " Is the child dead ?" They answer'd, '' He is dead !' 
 
 But when they look'd to see him ^all again 
 
 Upon his face, and rend himself and weep — 
 
 For, while the child was sick, his agony 
 
 "Would bear no comforters, and they had thought 
 
 His heartstrings with the tidings must give way — • 
 
 Behold ! his face grew calm, and, with his robe 
 
 Gather' d together like his kingly wont, 
 
 He silently went in. 
 
 And David came. 
 Robed and anointed, forth, and to the house 
 Of God went up to pray. And he return' d. 
 And they set bread before him, and he ate— 
 And when they marvell'd, he said, '' ^^%erefore mourn '^ 
 The child is dead, and I shall go to him — 
 But he will not return to we." 
 
 THE SACRIFICE OF ABRAHAM. 
 
 Morn breaketh in the east. The purple clouds 
 
 Are putting on their gold and violet, 
 
 To look the meeter for the sun's bright coming. 
 
 Sleep is upon the waters and the wind ; 
 
 And nature, from the wavy forest-leaf 
 
 To her majestic master, sleeps. As yet 
 
AV I L L I S ' S POEMS. 33 
 
 There is no mist upon the deep bhie sky, 
 
 And the clear dew is on the blushing bosoms 
 
 Of crimson roses in a holy rest. 
 
 How hallo w'd is the hour of morning! meet — 
 
 Ay, beautifully meet — for the pure prayer. 
 
 The patriarch standeth at his tented door, 
 
 With his white locks uncover'd. 'Tis his wont 
 
 To gaze upon that gorgeous Orient ; 
 
 And at that hour the awful majesty 
 
 Of man who talketh often with his Grod, 
 
 Is wont to come again, and clothe his brow 
 
 As at his fourscore strength. But now, he seemeth 
 
 To be forgetful of his vigorous frame. 
 
 And boweth to his staff as at the hour 
 
 Of noontide sultriness. And that bright sun — 
 
 He looketh at its pencill'd messengers, 
 
 Coming in golden raiment, as if all 
 
 Were but a graven scroll of fearfulness. 
 
 Ah, he is waiting till it herald in 
 
 The hour to sacrifice his much-loved son I 
 
 Light poureth on the world. And Sarah stands 
 Watching the steps of Abraham and her child 
 Along the dewy sides of the far hills, 
 And praying that her sunny boy faint not. 
 Would she have watch'd their path so silently, 
 If she had known that he was going up. 
 E'en in his fair-haired beauty, to be slain 
 As a white lamb for sacrifice ? They trod 
 Together onward, patriarch and child — 
 
34 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 The bright sun throwing back the old man's shade 
 
 In straight and fair proportions, as of one 
 
 Whose years were freshly number' d. He stood up 
 
 Tall in his vigorous strength ; and, like a tree 
 
 Rooted in Lebanon, his frame bent not. 
 
 His thin white hairs had yielded to the wind, 
 
 And left his brow uncover'd ; and his face, 
 
 Impress'd with the stern majesty of grief 
 
 Nerved to a solemn duty, now stood forth 
 
 Like a rent rock, submissive, yet sublime. 
 
 But the young boy — he of the laughing eye 
 
 And ruby lip — the pride of life was on him. 
 
 He seem'd to drink the morning. Sun and dew, 
 
 And the aroma of the spicy trees. 
 
 And all that giveth the delicious East 
 
 Its fitness for an Eden, stole like light 
 
 Into his spirit, ravishing his thoughts 
 
 With love and beauty. Every thing he met, 
 
 Buoyant or beautiful, the lightest wing 
 
 Of bird or insect, or the palest dye 
 
 Of the fresh flowers, won him from his path; 
 
 And joyously broke forth his tiny shout, 
 
 As he flung back his silken hair, and sprung 
 
 Away to some green spot or clustering vine, 
 
 To pluck his infant trophies. Every tree 
 
 And fragrant shrub was a new hiding-place ; 
 
 And he would crouch till the old man came by, 
 
 Then bound before him with his childish laugh. 
 
 Stealing a look behind him playfully, 
 
 To see if he had made his father smile 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 35 
 
 The sun lode on in heaven. The dew stole up 
 
 From the fresh daughters of the earth, and heat 
 
 Came hke a sleep upon the dehcate leaves, 
 
 And bent them with the blossoms to their dreams. 
 
 Still trod the patriarch on, with that same step. 
 
 Firm and unfaltering ; turning not aside 
 
 To seek the olive shades, or lave their lips 
 
 In the sweet waters of the Syrian wells, 
 
 Whose gush hath so much music. Weariness 
 
 Stole on the gentle boy, and he forgot 
 
 To toss his sunny hair from oflf his broWj 
 
 And spring for the fresh flowers and hght wings 
 
 As in the early morning ; but he kept 
 
 Close by his father's side, and bent his head 
 
 Upon his bosom like a drooping bud, 
 
 Lifting it not, save now and then, tr steal 
 
 A look up to the face whose sternness awed 
 
 His childishness to silence. 
 
 It was noon — 
 And Abraham on Moriah bow'd himself. 
 And buried up his face, and pray'd for strencth. 
 He could not look upon his son, and pray 
 But, with his hand upon the clustering curls 
 • Of the fair, kneeling boy, he pray'd that God 
 Would nerve him for that hour. * * * * 
 
 ***** JJ3 YOSQ up, and laid 
 The wood upon the altar. All was done. 
 He stood a moment — and a deep, quick flush 
 
*' Isaac ! my only son !" — The boy look'd up : 
 " Where is the lamb, my father ?" — Oh the tonea^ 
 The sweet, familiar voice of a loved child ! — 
 What would its music seem at such an hour ! — 
 It was the last deep struggle. Abraham held 
 His loved, his beautiful, his only son. 
 And lifted up his arm, and call'd on God — 
 And lo ! God's angel stay'd him — and he fell 
 Upon his face, and wept. 
 
 THE SHUNAMMITE. 
 
 It was a sultry day of summer-time. 
 
 The sun pour'd down upon the ripen'd grain 
 
 With quivering heat, and the suspended leaves 
 
 Hung motionless. The cattle on the hills 
 
 Stood still, and the divided flock were all 
 
 Laying their nostrils to the cooling roots, 
 
 And the sky look'd like silver, and it seem'd 
 
 As if the air had fainted, and the pulse 
 
 Of nature had run down, and ceased to beat. 
 
 " Haste thee, my child !" the Syrian mother said, 
 " Thy father is athirst" — and, from the depths 
 
She drew refreshing water, and with thoughts 
 
 Of God's sweet goodness stirring at her hears, 
 
 She bless'd her beautiful boy, and to his way 
 
 Committed him. And he went hghtly on, 
 
 With his soft hands press'd closely to the cool 
 
 Stone vessel, and his httle naked feet 
 
 Lifted with watcliful care ; and o'er the hills. 
 
 And through the light green hollows where the iamns 
 
 Go for the tender grass, he kept his way, 
 
 Wiling its distance with his simple thoughts, 
 
 Till, in the wilderness of sheaves, with brows 
 
 Throbbing with heat, he set his burden down. 
 
 Childhood is restless ever, and the boy 
 Stay'd not within the shadow of the tree, 
 But with a joyous industry went forth 
 Into the reaper's places, and bound up 
 His tiny sheaves, and plaited cunningly 
 The pliant withs out of the shining straw — 
 Cheering their labor on, till they forgot 
 The heat and weariness of their stooping toil 
 In the beguiling of his playful mirth. 
 Presently he was silent, and his eye 
 Closed as with dizzy pain, and with his hand 
 Press'd hard upon his forehead, and his breast 
 Ileaving with the suppression of a cry, 
 n!e utter'd a faint murmur, and fell back 
 iJpoa the loosen'd slieaf, insensible. 
 
38 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 They bore him to his mother, and he lay 
 Upon her knees till noon — and then he died ! 
 She had watch'd every breath, and kept her hand 
 Soft on his forehead, and gazed in upon 
 The dreamy languor of his hstless eye, 
 And she had laid back all his sunny curls 
 And kiss'd his delicate lip, and lifted him 
 Into her bosom, till her heart grew strong- - 
 His beauty was so unlike death 1 She lean'd 
 Over him now, that she might catch the low 
 Sweet music of his breath, that she had learn" J 
 To love when he was slumbering at her side 
 In his unconscious infancy — 
 
 " —So still ! 
 'Tis a soft sleep ! How beautiful he lies, 
 With his fair forehead, and the rosy veins 
 Playing so freshly in his sunny cheek ! 
 How could they say that he would die ! Oh G.id I 
 I could not lose him ! I have treasured all 
 His childhood in my heart, and even now, 
 As he has slept, my memory has been there, 
 Counting like treasures all his winning ways — 
 His unforgotten sweetness ; — 
 
 "— Yet so still!— 
 How like this breathless slumber is to death ! 
 I could believe that in that bosom now 
 There were no pulse — it beats so languidly ! 
 I cannot see it stir ; but his red lip ! 
 Death would not be so very beautiful ! 
 And that half smile — would death have left that there? 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 39 
 
 j^nd should I not have felt that he ^ould die ? 
 
 And have I not wept over him ? — and pray'd 
 Morning and night for him ? and could he die ? 
 __jq-o— God will keep liim 1 He will be my pride 
 Many long years to come, and his fair hair 
 Will darken like his father's, and his eye 
 Be of a deeper blue when he is grown ; 
 And he will be so tall, and I shall look 
 "With such a pride upon him ? — He to die 1" 
 And the fond mother lifted his soft curls, 
 And smiled, as if 'twere mockery to think 
 That such fair things could perish.— 
 
 — Suddenly 
 Her hand shrunk from him, and the color fled 
 From her fix'd Up, and her supporting knees 
 Were shook beneath her child. Her hand had touch'd 
 His forehead, as she dallied with his hair— 
 And it was cold— like clay ! Slow, very slow, 
 Came the misgiving that her child was dead. 
 She sat a moment, and her eyes were closed 
 In a dumb prayor for strength, and then she took 
 His little hand and press'd it earnestly— 
 And put her lip to his— and look'd again 
 Fearfully on him— and, then bending low, 
 She whisper'd in his ear, "My son!— my sonl" 
 And as the echo died, and not a sound 
 Broke on the stillness, and he lay there still- 
 Motionless on her knee— the truth would come 
 And with a sharp, quick cry, as if her heart 
 Were crush'd, phe lifted him and held him close 
 
40 WILLISS POEMS. 
 
 Into her bosom — with a mother's thought — 
 As if death had no power to touch him there! 
 
 The man of God came forth, and led the child 
 Unto his mother, and went on his way. 
 And he was there — her beautiful — her own — 
 Living and smiling on her — with his arms 
 Folded about her neck, and his warm breath 
 "Breathing upon her lips, and in her ear 
 The music of his gentle voice once more I 
 
 JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 She stood before her father's gorgeous tent, 
 To listen for his coming. Her loose hair 
 Was resting on her shoulders, hke a cloud 
 Floating around a statue, and the wind, 
 Just swaying her light robe, re veal' d a shape 
 Praxiteles might worship. She had clasp'd 
 Her hands upon her bosom, and had raised 
 Her beautiful, dark, Jewish eyes to heaven, 
 Till the long lashes lay upon her brow. 
 Her lip was slightly parted, like the cleft 
 Of a pomegranate blossom ; and her neck, 
 Just where the cheek was melting to its curve 
 "With the unearthly beauty sometimes there, 
 Was shaded, as iif light had fallen off, 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 4: 
 
 Its surface was so polish'd. She was stilling 
 
 Her light, quick breath, to hear ; and the M^iite rose 
 
 Scarce moved upon her bosom, as it swell'd, 
 
 Like nothing but a lovely wave of light, 
 
 To meet the arching of her queenly neck. 
 
 Her countenance was radiant with love. 
 
 She look'd like one to die for it — a being 
 
 "Whose whole existence was the pouring out 
 
 Of rich and deep affections. 
 
 Onward came 
 The leaden tramp of thousands. Clarion notes 
 Rang sharply on the ear at intervals ; 
 And the low, mingled din of mighty hosts 
 Eeturning from the battle, pour'd from far, 
 Like the deep murmur of a restless sea. 
 They came, as earthly conquerors always come. 
 With blood and splendor, revelry and wo. 
 The stately horse treads proudly — he hath trod 
 The brow of death, as well. The chariot-wheels 
 Of warriors roll magnificently on — 
 Their weight hath crush'd the fallen. Man is there — 
 Majestic, lordly man — with his sublime 
 And elevated brow, and godlike frame ; 
 Lifting his crest in triumph— for his heel 
 Hath trod the dying like a wine-press down ! 
 
 The mighty Jephthah led his warriors on 
 
 Through Mizpeh's streets. His helm was proa lly set, 
 
 And his stern lip curl'd slightly, as if praise 
 
 4* 
 
42 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 Were for the hero's scorn. His step was firm, 
 
 But free as India's leopard ; and his mail, 
 
 Whose shekels none in Israel might bear, 
 
 Was like a cedar's tassel on his frame. 
 
 His crest was Judah's kingliest ; and the look 
 
 Of his dark lofty eye, and bended brow, 
 
 Might quell the lion. He led on ; but thoughts 
 
 Seem'd gathering round which troubled him. The veins 
 
 Grew visible upon his swarthy brow, 
 
 And his proud lip was press'd as if with pain. 
 
 He trod less firmly ; and his restless eye 
 
 G-lanced forward frequently, as if some ill 
 
 He dared not meet, were there. His home was near 
 
 And men were thronging, with that strange delight 
 
 They have in human passions, to observe 
 
 The struggle of his feelings Avith his pride. 
 
 He gazed intently forward. The tall firs 
 
 Before his door were motionless. The leaves 
 
 Of the sweet aloe, and the clustering vines 
 
 Which half conceal'd his threshold, met his eye. 
 
 Unchanged and beautiful; and one by one. 
 
 The balsam, with its sweet-distilling stems. 
 
 And the Circassian rose, and all the crowd 
 
 Of silent and familiar things, stole up, 
 
 Like the recover' d passages of dreams. 
 
 He strode on rapidly. A moment more, 
 
 And he had reach'd his home ; when lo ! there sprang 
 
 One with a bounding footstep, and a brow 
 
 Of light, to meet him. Oh, how beautiful! — 
 
 Her proud eye flashing like a sun-lit gem — 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 43 
 
 And her luxuriant hair! — 'twas like the sweep 
 
 Of a dark wing in visious. He stood still, 
 
 As if the sight had wither'd him. She threw 
 
 Her arms about his neck — he heeded not. 
 
 She call'd him " Father" — but ne answer'd not. 
 
 She stood and gazed upon him. Was he wroth ? 
 
 There was no anger iu that blood-shot eye. 
 
 Had sickness seized him ? She unclasp'd his helm. 
 
 And laid her white hand gently on his biow, 
 
 And the large veins felt stiflf and hard, like cords. 
 
 The touch aroused him. He raised up his hands, 
 
 And spoke the name of God, in agony. 
 
 She knew tliat he was stricken, then ; and rush'd 
 
 Again into his arms ; and, with a flood 
 
 Of tears she could not bridle, sobb'd a prayer 
 
 That he would breathe his agony in words. 
 
 He told her — and a momentaiy flush 
 
 Shot o'er her countenance; and then the soul 
 
 Of Jeplithah's daughter waken'd; and she stood 
 
 Calmly and nobly up, and said 'twas well — 
 
 And she would die. * * * •x- » 
 
 The sun had well nigh set. 
 The fire was on the altar ; and the priest 
 Of the High God was there. A pallid man 
 Was stretching out his trembling hands to heaven. 
 As if he would have pray'd, but had no words — 
 And she who was to die, the calmest one 
 In Israel at that hour, stood up alone. 
 And waited for the sun to set. Her face 
 
44: WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 Was pale, but very beautiful — her lip 
 Had a more delicate outline, and the tint 
 Was deeper ; but her countenance was like 
 The majesty of angels. 
 
 The sun set — 
 And she was dead — but not by violence. 
 
 ABSALOM 
 
 The waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low 
 On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curl'd 
 Their glassy rings beneath it, Uke the still, 
 Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse. 
 The reeds bent down the stream ; the willow leaves 
 AVith a soft cheek upon the lulling tide, 
 Porgot the lifting winds ; and the long stems, 
 Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse, 
 Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way, 
 And lean'd, in graceful attitudes, to rest. 
 How strikingly the course of nature tells, 
 By its light heed of human suffering. 
 That it was fashion'd for a happier world ! 
 / King David's limbs were weary. He had fled 
 From far Jerusalem ; and now he stood. 
 With his faint people, for a Uttle rest 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 45 
 
 Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind 
 Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow 
 To its refreshing breath ; for he had worn 
 The mourner's covering, and he had not felt 
 That he could see his people until now. 
 They gather' d round him on the fresh green bank. 
 And spoke their kindly words ; and, as the sun 
 Kose up in heaven, he knelt among there, 
 And bow'd his head upon his hands to pray. 
 Oh ! when the heart is full — when bitter thoughts 
 Come crowding thickly up for utterance. 
 And the poor common words of courtesy 
 Are such an empty mockery — how much 
 The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer ! 
 He pray'd for Israel — and his voice went up 
 Strongly and fervently. He pray'd for those 
 Whose love had been his shield — and his deep tones 
 G-rew tremulous. But, oh ! for Absalom — 
 For his estranged, misguided Absalom — 
 The proud, bright being, who had burst away 
 In all his princely beauty, to defy 
 The heart that cherish'd him — for him he pour'd, 
 In agony that would not be controU'd, 
 Strong supplication, and forgave him there, 
 Before his God, for his deep sinfulness. 
 ********* 
 The pall was settled. He who slept beneath 
 Was straighten'd for the grave; and, as the folds 
 Sunk to the still proportions, they betray'd 
 The matchless symmetry of Absalom. 
 
46 WILLI S'S P OEMS. 
 
 His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls 
 Were floating round the tassels as they sway'd 
 To the admitted air, as glossy now 
 As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing 
 The snowy fingers of Judea's daughters. 
 His helm was at his feet : his banner, soii'd 
 With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid, 
 Reversed, beside him : and the jewell'd hilt, 
 Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade, 
 Rested, like mockery, on his cover'd brow. 
 The soldiers of the king trod to and fro, 
 Clad in the garb of battle ; and their chief. 
 The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier, 
 And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly. 
 As if he Ifear'd the slumberer might stir. 
 A slow step startled him. He grasp'd his blade 
 As if a trumpet rang ; but the bent form 
 Of David enter'd, and he gave command, 
 In a low tone, to his few followers. 
 And leit him with his dead. The king stood still 
 Till the last echo died ; then, throwing oiF 
 The sackcloth from his brow, and laymg back 
 The pall from the still features of his child. 
 He bow'd his head upon him, and broke forth 
 In the resistless eloquence of wo : 
 / 
 " Alas ! my noble boy ! that thou shouldst die f 
 
 Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair I 
 That death should settle in thy glorious oye. 
 
 And leave his stillness in this clusterino: hairt 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 47 
 
 How could he mark thee for the silent tomb ! 
 My proud boy, Absalom ! 
 
 " Cold is thy brow, my son ! and I am chill, 
 As to my bosom I have tried to press thee ! 
 
 How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, 
 
 Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, 
 
 And hear thy sweet ' my father /' from these dumb 
 And cold lips, Absalom ! 
 
 "■ But death is on thee. I shall hear the gush 
 Of music, and the voices of the young; 
 
 And life will pass me in the mantling blush. 
 And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung ; — 
 
 But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shall come 
 To meet me, Absalom ! 
 
 ** And oh ! when I am stricken, and my heart, 
 Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, 
 
 How will its love for thee, as I depart. 
 
 Yearn for thine ear to drink its lust deep token I 
 
 It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, 
 
 " And now, farewell ! 'Tis hard to give thee tip, 
 With death so Uke a gentle slumber on thee ; — 
 
 And thy dark sin ! — Oh ! I could drink the cup, 
 If from this wo its bitterness had won thee. 
 
 May God have call'd thee, like a wanderer, home. 
 My lost boy, Absalom I" 
 
48 WILLIS'S POEMS- 
 
 He cover'd up his face, and bowed himself 
 A moment on his child : then, giving him 
 A look of melting tenderness, he clasp'd 
 His hands convulsively, as if in prayer ; 
 And, as if strength were given him of Grod, 
 He rose up calmly, and composed the pall 
 Firmly and decently — and left him there — 
 As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. 
 
 CHRIST'S ENTRANCE INTO JERUSALEM. 
 
 He sat upon the " ass's foal" and rode 
 On to Jerusalem. Beside him walk'd. 
 Closely and silently, the faithful twelve. 
 And on before him went a multitude 
 Shouting Hosannas, and with eager hands 
 Strewing their garments thickly in his way. 
 Th' unbroken foal beneath him gently stepp'd, 
 Tame as its patient dam ; and as the song 
 Of " welcome to the Son of David" burst 
 Forth from a thousand children, and the leaves 
 Of the waved branches touch'd its silken ears^ 
 It turn'd its wild eye for a moment back, 
 And then, subdued by an invisible hand, 
 Meekly trode onward with its slender feet. 
 
 The dew's last sparkle from the grass had gone 
 As he rode up Mount Olivet. The woods 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 49 
 
 Through their cool shadows freshly to the west^ 
 And the light foal, with quick and toiling step, 
 And head bent low, kept its unslackea'd way 
 Till its soft mane was lilted by the wind 
 Seat o'er the mount from Jordan. As he reach'd 
 The summit's breezy pitch, the Saviour raised 
 His calm blue eye — there stood Jerusalem ! 
 Eagerly he bent forward, and beneath 
 His mantle's passive folds, a bolder line 
 Than the wont slightness of his perfect limbs 
 Betray'd the swelling fulness of his heart. 
 There stood Jerusalem ! How fair she look'd — 
 The silver sun on all her palaces, 
 And her fair daughters 'mid the golden spires 
 Tending their terrace flowers, and Kedron's stream 
 Lacing the meadows with its silver band. 
 And wreathing its mist-mantle on the sky 
 With the morn's exhalations. There she stood — 
 Jerusalem — the city of his love, 
 Chosen from all the ear.h ; Jerusalem — 
 That knew him not — and had rejected him; 
 Jerusalem — for whom he came to die ! 
 The shouts redoubled from a thousand lips 
 At the fair sight ; the children leap'd and sang 
 Louder Hosannas ; the clear air was fiU'd 
 With odor from the trampled olive-leaves — 
 But " Jesus wept." The loved disciple saw 
 His Master's tears, and closer to his side 
 He came with yearning looks, and on his neck 
 The Saviour leant with heavenly tenderness^ 
 5 
 
50 WILLIS'S P OEMS. 
 
 And mourn' d — "How oft, Jerusalem! would I 
 Have gather'd you, as gathereth a hen 
 ..^Her brood beneath her wings — but ye would not!' 
 
 He thought not of the death that he should die — 
 
 He thought not of the thorns he knew must pierce 
 
 His forehead — of the buffet on the cheek — 
 
 The scourge, the mocking homage, the foul scorn 1 
 
 Gethsemane stood out beneath his eye 
 
 Clear in the morning sun, and there, he knew, 
 
 Wliile they who " could not watch with him one hour" 
 
 Were sleeping, he should sweat great drops of blood. 
 
 Praying the " cup might pass." And Goli:^otha 
 
 kjLood bare and desert by the city waii, 
 
 And in its midst, to his prophetic eye. 
 
 Rose the rough cross, and its keen agonies 
 
 Were number'd all — the nails were in his feet — 
 
 Th' insulting sponge was pressing on his lips — 
 
 The blood and water gushing from his side — 
 
 The dizzy faintness swim'iing in his brain — 
 
 And, while his own disciples fled in fear, 
 
 A world's death-agonies all mix'd in his ! 
 
 Ay ! — he forgot all this. He only saw 
 
 Jerusalem, — the chos'n — the loved — the lost ! 
 
 He only felt that for her sake his life 
 
 Was vainly giv'n, and, in his pitying love. 
 
 The sufferings that would clothe the Heavens in black, 
 
 Were quite forgotten. Was there ever love, 
 
 In earth or heaven, equal uQto tliis ? 
 
V/ILLIS'S POEMS. 51 
 
 BAPTISM OF CHiUST. 
 
 It was a green spot in the wilderness, 
 Touch'd by the river Jordan. The dark pme 
 Never had dropp'd its tassels on the moss 
 Tufting the leaning bank, nor on the grass 
 Of the broad circle stretching evenly 
 To the straight larches, had a heavier foot 
 ^ Than the wild heron's trodden. Softly in 
 Through a long aisle of willows, dim and cool. 
 Stole the clear waters with their muffled feet, 
 And, hushing as they spread into the light. 
 Circled the edges of the pebbled bank 
 Slowly, then rippled through the woods away. 
 Hither had come th' Apostle of the wild, 
 Winding the river's course. 'Twas near the flush 
 Of eve, and, with a multitude around. 
 Who from the cities had come out to hear, 
 He stood breas^high amid the running stream, 
 Baptizing as the Spirit gave him power. 
 His simple raiment was of camel's hair, 
 A leathern girdle close about his loins. 
 His beard unshorn, and for his daily meat 
 The locust and wild honey of the wood — 
 But like the face of Moses on the mount 
 Shone his rapt countenance, and in his eye 
 Burn'd the mild fire of love — and as he spoke 
 The ear lean'd to him, and persuasion swift 
 To the chain 'd spirit of the listener stole. 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 Silent upon the green and sloping bank 
 
 The people sat, and while the leaves were shook 
 
 With the birds dropping early to their nests, 
 
 And the gray eve came on, within their hearts 
 
 They mused if he were Christ. The rippling stream 
 
 Still turn'd its silver courses from his breast 
 
 As he divined their thought. " I but baptize," 
 
 He said, " with water; but there cometh One, 
 
 The latchet of whose shoes I may not dare 
 
 E'en to unloose. He will baptize with fire 
 
 And with the Holy Ghost." And lo ! while yet 
 
 The words were on his lips, he raised his eyes, 
 
 And on the bank stood Jesus. He had laid 
 
 His raiment off, and with his loins alone 
 
 Grirt with a mantle, and his perfect limbs, 
 
 In their angelic sHghtness, meek and bare. 
 
 He waited to go in. But John forbade, 
 
 And hurried to his feet and stay'd him there, 
 
 And said, "Nay, master! I have need of thine, 
 
 Not thou of mine f And Jesus, with a smile 
 
 Of heavenly sadness, met his earnest looks. 
 
 And answer'd, " Suffer it to be so now ; 
 
 Tor thus it doth become me to fulfil 
 
 All righteousness." And, leaning to the stream, 
 
 He took around him the Apostle's arm. 
 
 And drew him gently to the midst. The wood 
 
 Was thick with the dim twilight as they came 
 
 Up from the water. With his clasped hands 
 
 Laid on his breast, th' Apostle silently 
 
 Follow'd his Master's steps — when, lo ! a light, 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 53 
 
 Bright as the tenfold glory of the sun, 
 Yet lambent as the softly burning stars, 
 Eavelop'd them, and from the heavens away 
 Parted the dim blue ether like a veil ; 
 And as a voice, fearful exceedingly. 
 Broke from the midst, " This is my much loved Son 
 In whom I AM WELL PLEASED," a snow-white dove. 
 Floating upon its wings, descended through ; 
 And, shedding a swift music from its plumes, 
 Circled, and flutter'd to the Saviour's breast. 
 
 SCENE IN GETHSEMANS. 
 
 The moon was shming yet. The Orient's brow 
 
 Set with the mornmg-star, was not yet dim ; 
 
 And the deep silence which subdues the breath 
 
 Like a strong feeling, hung upon the world 
 
 As sleep upon the pulses of a child. 
 
 'Twas the last watch of night. Gethsemane, 
 
 With its bathed leaves of silver, seeni'd dissolved 
 
 In visible stillness ; and as Jesus' voice, 
 
 With its bewildering sweetness, met the ear 
 
 Of his disciples, it vibrated on 
 
 Like the first whisper in a silent world. 
 
 They came on slowly. Heaviness oppress'd 
 
 The Saviour's heart, and when the kindnesses 
 
 Of his deep love were pour'd, he felt the need 
 
54 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 Of near communion, for his gift of strength 
 
 Was wasted by the spirit's weariness. 
 
 He left them there, and went a httle on. 
 
 And in the depth of that hush'd silentness, 
 
 Alone with God, he fell upon his face, 
 
 And as his heart was broken with the rush 
 
 Of his surpassing agony, and death, 
 
 Wrung to him from a dying universe, 
 
 Was mightier than the Son of man could bear^ 
 
 He gave his sorrows way — and in the deep 
 
 Prostration of his soul, breathed out the prayer, 
 
 " Father, if it be possible with thee, 
 
 Let this cup pass from me." Oh, how a word. 
 
 Like the forced drop before the fountain breaks, 
 
 Stilleth the press of human agony 1 
 
 The Saviour felt its quiet in his soul ; 
 
 And though his strength was weakness, and the lig' 
 
 Which led him on till now was sorely dim. 
 
 He breathed a new submission — " Not my will, 
 
 Eut thine be done, oh Father !" As he spoke, 
 
 Voices were heard in heaven, and music stole 
 
 Out from the chambers of the vaulted sky 
 
 As if the stars were swept like instruments. 
 
 No cloud was visible, but radiant wings 
 
 Were coming with a silvery rush to earth, 
 
 And as the Saviour rose, a glorious one, 
 
 With an illumined forehead, and the light 
 
 Whose fountain is the mystery of God, 
 
 Encalm'd within his eye, bow'd down to him 
 
 And nerved him with a ministry of strength. 
 
W I L L I S S POEMS. 55 
 
 It was enough — and with his godlike brow 
 Re- written of his Father's messenger, 
 With meekness, whose divinity is more 
 Than power and glory, he return'd again 
 To his disciples, and awaked their sleep, 
 For "he that should betray him was at hand." 
 
 THE WIDOW OF NAIN 
 
 y 
 
 The Roman sentinel stood helm'd and tall 
 Beside the gate of Nain. The busy tread 
 Of comers to the city mart was done, 
 For it was almost noon, and a dead heat 
 Quiver'd upon the fine and sleeping dust. 
 And the cold snake crept panting from the wall. 
 And bask'd his scaly circles in the sun. 
 Upon his spear the soldier lean'd, and kept 
 His idle watch, and, as his drowsy dream 
 Was broken by the solitary foot 
 Of some poor mendicant, he raised his head 
 To curse him for a tributary Jew, 
 And slumberously dozed on. 
 
 'Twas now high noon. 
 The dull, low murmur of a funeral 
 Went through the city — the sad sound of feet 
 Unmix'd with voices — and the sentinel 
 
d6 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 Shook off his slumber, and gazed earnestly 
 
 Up the wide streets along whose paved way 
 
 Tlie silent throng crept slowly. They came on, 
 
 Bearing a body heavily on its bier, 
 
 And by the crowd that in the burning sun, 
 
 Walk'd with forgetful sadness, 'twas of one 
 
 Mourn'd with uncommon sorrow. The broad gate 
 
 Swung on its hinges, and the Roman bent 
 
 His spear-point downwards as the bearers pass'u, 
 
 Bending beneath their burden. There was one — 
 
 Only one mourner. Close behind the bier, 
 
 Crumpling the pall up in her wither'd hands, 
 
 Follow'd an aged woman. Her short steps 
 
 Falter'd with weakness, and a broken moan 
 
 Fell from her hps, thicken'd convulsively 
 
 As her heart bled afresh. The pitying crowd 
 
 Follow'd apart, but no one spoke to her. 
 
 She had no kinsmen. She had lived alone — 
 
 A widow with one son. He was her all — 
 
 The only tie she had in the wide world — 
 
 And he was dead. They could not comfort her. 
 
 Jesus drew near to Nain as from the gate 
 The funeral came forth. His lips were pale 
 With the noon's sultry heat. The beaded sweat 
 Stood thickly on his brow, and on the worn 
 And simple latchets of his sandals lay. 
 Thick, the white dust of travel. He had come 
 Since sunrise from Capernaum, staying not 
 To wet liis lips by green Bethsaida's pool. 
 
 2 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS, 6^ 
 
 Nor wash his feet in Kishon's silver springs, 
 Nor turn him southward upon Tabor's side 
 To catch Gilboa's light and spicy breeze. 
 Genesareth stood cool upon the East, 
 Fast by the Sea of Galilee, and there 
 The weary traveller might bide till eve ; 
 And on the alders of Bethuha's plains 
 The grapes of Palestine hung ripe and wild ; 
 Yet turn'd he not aside, but, gazing on, 
 From every swelHng mount he saw afar. 
 Amid the hills, the humble spires of Nain, 
 The place of his next errand; and the path 
 Touch'd not Bethulia, and a league away 
 Upon the East lay pleasant Galilee. 
 
 Forth from the city-gate the pitying crowd 
 Follow'd the striken mourner. They came near 
 The place of burial, and, with straining hands, 
 Closer upon her breast she clasp'd the pall, 
 And with a gasping sob, quick as a child's, 
 And an inquiring wildness flashing through 
 The thin gray lashes of her fever'd eyes, 
 She came where Jesus stood beside the way. 
 He look'd upon her, and his heart was moved, 
 "Weep notl" h6 said; and as they stay'd the bier 
 And at his bidding laid it at his feet, 
 He gently drew the pall from out her grasp, 
 And laid it back in silence from the dead. 
 Yv ith troubled wonder the mute throng drew dear, 
 And gazed on his calm looks. A minute's space 
 
58 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 He stood and pray'd. Then, taking the cold hand, 
 
 He said, "Arise!" And instantly the breast 
 Heaved in its cerements, and a sudden flush 
 Ran through the lines of the divided lips, 
 And with a murmur of his mother's name, 
 He trembled and sat upright in his shroud. 
 And, w^hile the mourner hung upon his neck, 
 Jesus went calmly on his way to Nain. 
 
 HAGAR m THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 The morning broke. Light stole upon the clouds 
 With a strange beauty. Earth received again 
 Its garments of a thousand dyes ; and leaves, 
 And delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers, 
 And every thing that bendeth to the dew, 
 And stirreth with the daylight, lifted up 
 Its beauty to the breath of that sweet morn. 
 
 All things are dark to sorrow ; and the light. 
 And loveliness, and fragrant air were sad 
 To the dejfccted Hagar. The moist earth 
 Was pouring odors from its spicy pores. 
 And the young birds were singing as if life 
 Were a new thing to them ; but music came 
 Upon her ear like discord, and she felt 
 
W I L L I S S POEMS 59 
 
 That pang of the unreasonable heart, 
 That, bleedirxg amid things it loved so well, 
 Would have some sign of sadness as they pass. 
 She stood at Abraham's tent. Her lips were press'd 
 Till the blood started ; and the wandering veins 
 Of her transparent forehead were swell'd out, 
 As if her pride would burst them. Her dark eye 
 Was clear and tearless,^ and the light of heaven, 
 Which made its language legible, shot back, 
 From her long lashes, as it had been flame. 
 Her noble boy stood by her, with his hand 
 Clasp'd in her own, and his round, delicate feet, 
 Scarce train'd to balance on the tented floor, 
 Sandall'd for journeying. He had look'd up 
 Into his mother's face until he caught 
 The spirit there, and his young heart was swelling 
 Beneath his dimpled bosom, and his form 
 Straighten'd up proudly in his tiny wrath, 
 As if his light proportions would have swell'd, 
 Had they but match'd his spirit, to the man. 
 
 Why bends the patriarch as he cometli now 
 Upon his staff so wearily ? His beard 
 Is low upon his breast, and his high brow 
 So written with the converse of his God, 
 Beareth the swollen vein of agony. 
 His lip is quivering, and his wonted step 
 Of vigor is not there ; and though the morn 
 Is passing fair and beautiful, he breathes 
 Its freshness as it were a pestilence. 
 
60 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 He gave to her the water and the bread, 
 But spoke no word, and trusted not himself 
 To look upon her face, but laid his hand 
 In silent blessing on the fair-hair'd boy. 
 And left her to her lot of loneliness. 
 
 Should Hagar weep ? May sHghted woman turn, 
 And, as a vine the oak has shaken off, 
 Bend lightly to her leaning trust again ? 
 O no ! by all her lovehness — by all 
 That makes life poetry and beauty, no ! 
 Make her a slave ; steal from her rosy cheek 
 By needless jealousies ; let the last star 
 Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain ; 
 Wrong her by petulanoe, suspicion, all 
 That makes her cup a bitterness — ^yet give 
 One evidence of love, and earth has not 
 An emblem of devotedness like hers. 
 But oh I estrange her once — it boots not how — 
 By wrong or silence — any thing that tells 
 A change has come upon your tenderness, — 
 And there is not a feehng out of heaven 
 Her pride o'ermastereth not. 
 
 She Avent her way with a strong stop and slow — 
 Her press'd lip arch'd, and her clear eye undimm'd, 
 As if it were a diamond, and her form 
 Borne proudly up, as if her heart breathed througli. 
 Her child kept on in silence, though she press'd 
 His hand till it was pain'd ; for he had read, 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. Gl 
 
 The dark look of his mother, and the seed 
 Of a stern nation had been breathed upon. 
 
 The morning pass'd, and Asia's sun rode up 
 In the clear heaven, and every beam was heat. 
 The cattle of the hills were in the shade, 
 And the bright plumage of the Orient lay 
 On beating bosoms in her spicy trees. 
 It was an hour of rest ! but Hagar found 
 No shelter in the wilderness, and on 
 She kept her weary way, until the boy 
 Hung down his head, and open'd his parch'd lips 
 For water ; but she could not give it him. 
 She laid him down beneath the sultry sky, — 
 For it was better than the close, hot breath 
 Of the thick pines, — and tried to comfort him ; 
 But he was sore athirst, and his blue eyes 
 Were dim and blood-shot, and he could not know 
 "Why God denied him water in the wild. 
 She sat a little longer, and he grew 
 Ghastly and faint, as if he would have die J. 
 It was too much for her. She lifted him. 
 And bore him further on, and laid his head 
 Beneath the shadow of a desert shrub ; 
 And, shrouding up her face, she went away, 
 And sat to watch, where he could see her not, 
 Till he should die; and, watching him, she moum'd 
 
 " God stay thee in thine agony, ray boy 1 
 I cannot see thee die ; I cannot brook 
 
 Upon thy l)row to look, 
 6 
 
gj WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 A.nd see death settle on my cradle joy. 
 How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye ! 
 And could I see thee die ? 
 
 " I did not dream of this when thou wast straying.. 
 ■ Like an unbound gazelle, among the flowers ; 
 
 Or wiling the soft hours, 
 By the rich gush of water-sources playing, 
 Then sinking weary to thy smiling sleep. 
 
 So beautiful and deep. 
 
 " Oh no ! and when I watch'd by thee the while. 
 And saw thy bright lip curling in thy dream 
 
 And thought of the dark stream 
 In my own land of Egypt, the far Nile, 
 How pray'd I that my father's land might be 
 
 An heritage for thee ! 
 
 And now the grave for its cold breast hath won thee 
 And thy white, delicate limbs the earth will press ; 
 
 And oh ! my last caress 
 Must feel thee cold, for a chill hand is on thee. 
 How can I leave my boy, so pillow'd there 
 
 Upon his clustering hair !" 
 
 She stood beside the well her God had given 
 To gush in that deep wilderness, and bathed 
 The forehead of her child until he laugh'd 
 In his reviving happiness, and lisp'd 
 His infant thought of gladness at the sight 
 Of the cool plashing of his mother's hand. 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. (5:5 
 
 RIZPAH WITH HER S.ONS, 
 
 (the DAT BEFORE THET -VVEKE HANGED ON GIBEAH.) 
 
 "Bread for my mother!" said the voice of one 
 Darkening the door of Rizpah. She look'd up — • 
 And lo ! the princely countenance and mien 
 Of dark-brow'd Armoni. The eye of Saul — 
 The very voice and presence of the king — 
 Limb, port, and majesty, — were present there, 
 Mock'd hke an apparition in her son. 
 Yet, as he stoop* d his forehead to her hand 
 With a kind smile, a something of his mother 
 Unbent the haughty arching of his lip, 
 And, through the darkness of the widow's heart 
 Trembled a nerve of tenderness that shook 
 Her thought of pride all suddenly to tears. 
 
 " Whence comest thou ?" said Rizpah. 
 
 " From the house 
 Of David. In his gate there stood a soldier — 
 This in his hand. I pluck'd it. and I said, 
 'J. king's son takes it for his hungry mother T 
 God stay the famine 1" 
 
 ****** ^^g j^g spoke, a step, 
 Light as an antelope's, the threshold press'd, 
 And like a beam of light into the room 
 Enter'd Mephibosheth. What bird of heaven 
 Or creature of the wild — what flower of earth — 
 
64 Willis's poems. 
 
 Was like this fairest of the sons of Saul I 
 The violet's cup was harsh to his blue eye. 
 Less agile was the fierce barb's fiery step. 
 His voice drew hearts to him. His smils was like 
 The incarnation of some blessed dream — 
 Its joyousness so sunn'd the gazer's eye I 
 Pair were his locks. His snowy teeth divided 
 A bow of Love, drawn with a scarlet thread. 
 His cheek was like the moist heart of the rose ; 
 And, but for nostrils of that bieathing fire 
 That turns the hon back, and limbs as lithe 
 As is the velvet muscle of the pard, 
 Mephibosheth had been too fair for man. 
 
 As if he were a vision that would fade, 
 Rizpah gazed on him. Never, to her eye, 
 Grew his bright form familiar ; but, like stars, 
 That seem'd each night new lit in a new heaven, 
 He was each morn's sweet gift to her. She loved 
 Her firstborn, as a mother loves her child, 
 Tenderly, fondly. But for him — the last — 
 What had she done for heaven to be his njotherl 
 Her heart rose in her throat to hear his voice ; 
 She look'd at him forever through her tears ; 
 Her utterance, when she spoke to him, sank down. 
 As if the lightest thought of him had lain 
 In an unfathom'd cavern of her soul. 
 The morning light was part of him, to her — 
 What broke the day for, but to show his beauty ? 
 The hours but measured time till he should comer 
 
65 
 
 Too tardy sang the bird when he was gone ; 
 
 She would have shut the flowers — and call'd the star 
 
 Back to the mountain-top — and bade the sun 
 
 Pause at eve's golden door — to wait for him I 
 
 Was this a heart gone wild ? — or is the love 
 
 Of mothers like a madness ? Such as this 
 
 Is many a poor one in her humble home, 
 
 Who silently and sweetly sits alone, 
 
 Pouring her life all out upon her child. 
 
 What cares she that he does not feel how close 
 
 Her heart beats after his — that all unseen 
 
 Are the fond thoughts that follow him by day, 
 
 And watch his sleep like angels ? And, when moved 
 
 By some sore needed Providence, he stops 
 
 In his wild path and lifts a thought to heaven, 
 
 What cares the mother that he does not see 
 
 The Unk between the blessing and her prayer I 
 
 He who once wept with Mary — angels keeping 
 Their unthank'd watch — are a foreshadowing 
 Of what love is in heaven. We may believe 
 That we shall know each other's forms hereafter, 
 And, in the bright fields of the better land. 
 Call the lost dead to us. Oh conscious heart I 
 That in the lone paths of this shadowy world 
 Hast bless'd all light, however dimly shining, 
 That broke upon the darkness of thy way — 
 Number thy lamps of love, and tell me, now, 
 How many canst thou re-light at the stars 
 And blush not at their burning ? One — one only — 
 6* 
 
66 WILLIS'SPOEMS. 
 
 Lit -while your pulses by one heart kept time, 
 And fed with faitliful fondness to your grave — 
 (Tho' sometimes with a hand stretcli'd back from heaver 
 Steadfast thro' all things — near, when most forgot — 
 And with its finger of unerring truth 
 Pointing the lost way in thy darkest hour — 
 One lamp — thy mother's love — amid the stars 
 Shall lift its pure flame changeless, and, before 
 The throne of God, burn through eternity- 
 Holy — as it was lit and lent thee here. 
 
 The hand in salutation gently raised 
 To the bow'd forehead of the princely boy, 
 Linger'd amid his locks. " I sold," he said, 
 " My Lybian barb for but a cake of meal — 
 Lo ! this — my mother ! As I pass'd the street, 
 I hid it in my mantle, for there stand 
 Famishing mothers, with their starving babes, 
 At every threshold ; and wild, desperate men 
 Prowl, with the eyes of tigers, up and down, 
 Watching to rob those who, from house to house, 
 Beg for the dying. Fear not thou, my mother I 
 Thy sons will be Elijah's ravens to thee I" 
 [unfinished.] 
 
 LAZARUS AND MARY. 
 
 Jesus was there but yesterday. The prints 
 Of his departing feet wero at the door ; 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 6 
 
 His *' Peace be with you !" was yet audible 
 In the rapt porch of Mary's charmed ear; 
 And, in the low rooms, 'twas as if the air, 
 Hush'd with his going forth, had been the breath 
 Of angels left on watch — so conscious still 
 The place seem'd of his presence ! Yet, within, 
 The family by Jesus loved were weeping, 
 For Lazarus lay dead. 
 
 And Mary sat 
 By the pale sleeper. He was young to die. 
 The countenance whereon the Saviour dwelt 
 With his benignant smile — the soft fair lines 
 Breathing of hope — were still all eloquent, 
 Like life well mock'd in marble. That the voice, 
 Gone from those pallid lips, was heard in heaven, 
 Toned with unearthly sweetness — that the light. 
 Quench'd in the closing of those stirless lids, 
 Was veiling before Grod its timid fire, 
 New-lit, and brightening like a star at eve — 
 That Lazarus, her brother, was in bliss, 
 Not with this cold clay sleeping — Mary knew. 
 Her heaviness of heart was not for him ! 
 But close had been the tie by Death divided. 
 The intertwining locks of that bright hair 
 That wiped the feet of Jesus — the fair hands 
 Clasp'd in her breathless wonder while he taught— 
 Scarce to one pulse thrill'd more in unison, 
 Than with one soul this sister and her brother 
 Had lock'd their Uves together. In this love^ 
 
68 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 Hallow'd from stain, the woman's heart of Mary 
 Was, with its rich affections, all bound up. 
 Of an unblemish'd beauty, as became 
 An office by archangels fill'd till now, 
 She walk'd with a celestial halo clad ; 
 And while, to the Apostles' eyes, it seem'd 
 She but fulfiU'd her errand out of heaven — 
 Sharing her low roof with the Son of God — 
 She was a woman, fond and mortal still ; 
 And the deep fervor, lost to passion's fire. 
 Breathed through the sister's tenderness. In vain 
 Knew Mary, gazing on that face of clay. 
 That it was not her brother. He was there — 
 Swathed in that linen vesture for the grave — 
 The same loved one in all his comeliness — 
 And with him to the grave her heart must go. 
 What though he talk'd of her to angels ? nay — 
 Hover'd in spirit near her ? — 'twas that arm, 
 Palsied in death, whose fond caress she knew 1 
 It was that lip of marble with whose kiss. 
 Morning and eve, love hemm'd the sweet day in. 
 Ihis was the form by the Judean maids 
 Praised for its palm-like stature, as he walk'd 
 With her by Kedron in the eventide — 
 The dead was Lazarus i * * * * * 
 The burial was over, and the night 
 Fell upon Bethany — and morn — and noon. 
 And comforters and mourners went their way — 
 But death stay'd on ! They had been oft alone, 
 When Lazarus had follow'd Christ to hear 
 
WILLIS S POEMS. 69 
 
 His teachings in Jerusalem ; but this 
 Was more than solitude. The silence now 
 Was void of expectation. Something felt 
 Always before, and loved without a name, — 
 Joy from the air, hope from the opening door, 
 Welcome and life from off the very walls, — 
 Seem'd gone — and in the chamber where he lay 
 There was a fearful and unbreathing hush. 
 Stiller than night's last hour. So fell on Mary 
 The shadows all have known, whose bleeding hearts 
 Seem'd the torn gate thro' which the loved, departed^ 
 Broke from this world away. The parting soul 
 Spreads wing betwixt the mourner and the sky ! 
 As if its path lay, from the tie last broken, 
 Straight through the cheering gateway of the sun; 
 And, to the eye strain'd after, 'tis a cloud 
 That bars the light from all things. 
 
 Now as Christ 
 Drew near to Bethany, the Jews went forth 
 With Martha, mourning Lazarus. But Mary 
 Sat in the house. She knew the hour was nigh 
 When He would go again, as He had said, 
 IJnto His Father ; and she had felt that He, 
 Who loved her brother Lazarus in life. 
 Had chose the hour to bring him home thro' Death 
 In no unkind forgetful n ess. Alone — 
 She could lift up the bitter prayer to heaven, 
 " Thy will be done, God !"— but that dear brother 
 Had fill'd the cup and broke the bread for Christ; 
 And ever, at the morn, when she had knelt 
 
70 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 And wash'd those holy feet, came Lazarus 
 
 To bind his sandals on, and follow forth 
 
 With dropp'd eyes, like an angel, sad and fair — 
 
 Intent upon the Master's need alone. 
 
 Indissolubly hnk'd were they ! And now, 
 
 To go to meet him — Lazarus not there — 
 
 And to his greeting answer " It is well!" 
 
 And, without tears, (since grief would weigh on Him 
 
 Whose soul was over-sorrowful,) to kneel 
 
 And minister alone — her heart gave way ! 
 
 She cover'd up her face and turn'd again 
 
 To wait within for Jesus. But once more 
 
 Came Martha, saying, " Lo ! the Lord is here 
 
 And calleth for thee, Mar}^ !" Then arose 
 
 The mourner from the ground, whereon she sate 
 
 Shrouded in sackcloth, and bound quickly up 
 
 The golden locks of her dishevell'd hair. 
 
 And o'er her ashy garments drew a veil 
 
 Hiding the eyes she could not trust. And still. 
 
 As she made ready to go forth, a calm 
 
 As in a dream fell on her. 
 
 At a fount 
 Hard by the sepulchre, without the wall, 
 Jesus awaited Mary. Seated near 
 Were the way-worn disciples in the shade ; 
 But, of himself forgetful, Jesus lean'd 
 Upon his staff, and watch'd where she should come 
 To whose one sorrow — but a sparrow's falling— 
 The pity that redeem'd a world could bleed ! 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS, 71 
 
 And as she came, with that uncertain step, — 
 
 Eager, yet weak, — her hands upon her breast, — 
 
 And they who foUow'd her all fallen back 
 
 To leave her with her sacred grief alone, — 
 
 The heart of Christ was troubled. She drew near, 
 
 And the disciples rose up from the fount. 
 
 Moved by her look of wo, and gather'd round ; 
 
 And Mary — for a moment — ere she look'd 
 
 Upon the Saviour, stay'd her faltering feet, — 
 
 And straighten'd her veil'd form, and tighter drew 
 
 Her clasp upon the folds across her breast ; 
 
 Then, with a vain strife to control her tears, 
 
 She staggered to their midst, and at His feet 
 
 Fell prostrate, saying, " Lord ! hadst thou been here, 
 
 My brother had not died I" The Saviour groan'd 
 
 In spirit, and stoop'd tenderly, and raised 
 
 The mourner from the ground, and in a voice, 
 
 Broke in its utterance like her own, He said, 
 
 " Where have ye laid him ?" Then the Jews who came, 
 
 Following Mary, answer'd through their tears, 
 
 " Lord ! come and see 1" But lo ! the mighty heart 
 
 That in Gethsemane sweat drops of blood, 
 
 Taking for us the cup that might not pass — 
 
 The heart whose breaking cord upon the cross 
 
 Made the earth tremble, and the sun afraid 
 
 To look upon his agony — the heart 
 
 Of a lost world's Redeemer — overflow'd, 
 
 Touch'd by a mourner's sort-ow ! Jesus wept. 
 
 Calm'd by those pitying tears, and fondly brooding 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 Upon the thought that Christ so loved her brother, 
 
 Stood Mary there ; but that lost burden now 
 
 Lay on His heart who pitied her ; and Christ, 
 
 Following slow, and groaning in Himself, 
 
 Came to the sepulchre. It was a cave, 
 
 And a stone lay upon it. Jesus said, 
 
 " Take ye away the stone !" Then lifted He 
 
 His moistened eyes to Heaven, and while the Jews 
 
 And the disciples bent their heads in awe, 
 
 And trembling Mary sank upon her knees, 
 
 The Son of God pray'd audibly. He ceased, 
 
 And for a minute's space there was a hush, 
 
 As if th' angelic watchers of the world 
 
 Had stay'd the pulses of all breathing things. 
 
 To listen to that prayer. The face of Christ 
 
 Shone as He stood, and over Him there came 
 
 Command, as 'twere the living face of God, 
 
 And with a loud voice. He cried, " Lazarus ! 
 
 Come forth !" And instantly, bound hand and foot 
 
 And borne by unseen angels from the cave, 
 
 He that was dead stood with them. At the word 
 
 Of Jesus, the fear-stricken Jews unloosed 
 
 The bands from off the foldings of his shroud ; 
 
 And Mary, with her dark veil thrown aside, 
 
 Ran to him swiftly, and cried, '' Lazarus I 
 
 My brother, Lazarus !" and tore away 
 
 The napkin she had bound about his head — 
 
 And touch'd the warm lips with her fearful hand— 
 
 And on his neck fell weeping. And while all 
 
 Lay on their faces prostrate, Lazarus 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 73 
 
 Took Mary by the hand, and they knelt down 
 And worshipp'd Him who loved them. 
 
 CHRIST BLESSING LITTLE CHILDREN. 
 
 "Then were there brought unto him little children, that he shoula 
 put his hands on them, and pray: and the disciples rebuked them. 
 
 " But Jesus said, Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come 
 unto me; for of such is the kingdom of heaven."— Mattuew xix. 
 13, 14. 
 
 "At the same time came the disciples unto Jesus, saying, Who is the 
 greatest in the kingdom of heaven? 
 
 "And Jesus called a little child unto him, and set him in the midst 
 of them, 
 
 "And said. Verily, I say unto you. Except ye be converted and be. 
 come as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of 
 heaven. 
 
 " Whosoever, therefore, shall humble himself as this little child, the 
 same is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven." — Matthew xviii. 1-4. 
 
 The errand upon earth was well nigh done. 
 A little more, and that dread passer-on — 
 Time, that not even at the Cross stood still — 
 Must come, with Calvary's ninth hour. And Christ 
 Turn'd tow'rd Jerusalem. Galilee was sweet, 
 With its fair Mount, that was the step of heaven — 
 (Whereon He had but just now stood, and through 
 The door flung open to the throne of God, 
 Drank strength in the transfiguring light) — and here 
 Dwelt Mary, holy mother; and 'twas here 
 7 
 
^4 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 His childhood had been passed ; and here the life 
 
 E'en Christ must learn to love, to be " like us," 
 
 Had been most sweet to him. But not where life 
 
 So gently beautiful is known — oh, not 
 
 Where Nature with her calm rebuke is heard — 
 
 Could the Great Wrong be done I in Mammon's mart — 
 
 The crowded city, where the small, still voice 
 
 Is, like the leaf's low whisper, overborne — 
 
 Where the dark shadow, which before us falls 
 
 When we are turning from the light away. 
 
 Seems at another's feet and not our own — 
 
 Where, 'mid the multitude's bewildering shout, 
 
 Anguish may moan unheedly and even 
 
 Lama sabacthani go up unheard — 
 
 There, only, could the Son of God be slain ! 
 
 And when to his disciples Jesus said 
 
 " Behold, we go up to Jerusalem," 
 
 Then turned His path from peaceful Galilee ; 
 
 Thence — to the scourge, the buffet, and the scorn, 
 
 Gethsemane's last conflict, and the Cross — 
 
 The meek first step to Calvary was there ! 
 
 And Christ passed over Jordan, to the coast 
 
 Of populous Judea ; and there came 
 
 Multitudes to Him, listening as He taught, 
 
 And wondering at His miracles ; for lo ! 
 
 His calm word healed all sicknesses ; the blind 
 
 Rose up and gazed upon the luminous brow 
 
 Whose glory liad shone through their darkened lids; 
 
 The dumb spoke ; and the leper became clean ; 
 
■WILLIS'S POEMS. 75 
 
 And devils were cast out which had defied 
 
 The word of His disciples. With new awe, 
 
 Touched with compassionating love, looked these 
 
 Upon their Master now ; for, near at hand. 
 
 They felt the shadow of His coming hour. 
 
 And though His face shone, with the strength new gi ve^ 
 
 By the celestial sacrament of light 
 
 Upon the Mount administered, they still 
 
 Trembled, as men, for One who, as a man. 
 
 Must pass through death — death of such agony 
 
 As for a world's transgressions might atone — 
 
 Whose bitter cup even the Son of God 
 
 Must shrink from, with a prayer that it might pass I 
 
 Christ had told o'er His sorrows, to the end. 
 They knew what must befall. In silence sad, 
 Listened the Twelve, while jeered the Pharisee, 
 And tempted Him the Scribe — for so must He 
 To His last victory come ; but eager still, 
 Looked they where they might minister to Him, 
 Or, watclifully, from that dark path of woe, 
 Pluck out the needless thorn. 
 
 The eventide 
 Found Him among his questioners — the same ; 
 Patient and meek as in the morning hour — 
 And while the Scribes, with His mild answers foiled^ 
 Sat by and reasoned in their hearts, behold 
 There was a stir in the close multitude. 
 And voices pleaded to come nigh ; and, straight, 
 
76 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 The crowd divided, and a mother came, 
 
 Holding her babe before her, and on Christ 
 
 Fixing her moist eyes steadfastly. He turned 
 
 Benignant, as she trembhngly came near ; 
 
 And the sad earnestness His face had worn 
 
 While He disputed with the crafty scribes, 
 
 Was touched with the foreshadowing of a smile. 
 
 And, lo ! another, and another still. 
 
 Led by this sweet encouragement to come. 
 
 Pressed where the first had made her trusting way ; 
 
 And soon, a fair young company they stood — 
 
 A band, who (by a lamp of love, new lit, 
 
 And fed by oil of tenderness from Heaven — 
 
 By recognition, instinct as the eye 
 
 To know, 'mid clouds, the twinkle of a star — 
 
 By mother s love) knew what must holiest be. 
 
 And where to bring their children to be blest. 
 
 And as Christ looked upon them, where they stood, 
 
 And each would lay her infant in His arms, 
 
 To see it there, and know that He had borne 
 
 Her burden on His bosom, there rose up 
 
 Some of the Twelve ; and, mindful of the night, 
 
 And of the trials of the weary day. 
 
 They came between, and bade them to depart. 
 
 And trouble not the Master. Then did Christ, 
 
 Reproving His disciples, call again 
 
 The mothers they had turned from Him away , 
 
 And, leaning gently tow'rd them as they came, 
 
 Tenderly took the babes unto His arms, 
 
 And laid His hand upon their foreheads fair, 
 
WILLI S'S P OEM S 77 
 
 And blest them, saying : Suffer them to come ; 
 
 For, in my Father's kingdom, such are they. 
 
 Whoso is humble as a little child. 
 
 The same is greatest in the courts of heaven. 
 
 Spotless is infancy, we fondly feel. 
 
 Angels in heaven are like it, He hath said. 
 
 Mothers have dreamed the smile upon the lips 
 
 Of slumbering babes to be the memory 
 
 Of a bright world they come from ; and that, here, 
 
 'Mid the temptations of this fallen star, 
 
 They bide the trial for a loftier sphere — 
 
 Ever progressing. Fearfully, if so, 
 
 Give we, to childhood, guidance for high heaven! 
 
 But, be this lofty vision as it may, 
 
 Christ blest them, here. And, oh ! if in the hour 
 
 Of his first steps to Calvary, and 'mid 
 
 The tempters, who. He knew, had thus begun 
 
 The wrongs that were to lead Him to the cross ; 
 
 If here, 'mid weariness and gathering woe, 
 
 The heart of Christ turned meltingly to them, 
 
 And, for a harsh word to these little ones, 
 
 Though uttered but with sheltering care for Him, 
 
 He spoke rebukingly to those He loved — 
 
 If babes thus pure and priceless were to Christ — 
 
 Holy, indeed, the trust to whom they're given 1 
 
 Sacred are they ! 
 
78 WILLIS SrOKMS. 
 
 CHRIST'S MOTHER. 
 
 TnOUCnXS TTPON TIIK PROBABLK daily KECIPnOCITIES OF T)"r~l AND 
 
 tenderness betwekn oiiki.st and his mother, in the savioitu's 
 :hildiiood — suggested by the reading of that exquisite narra- 
 tive, THE SECOND CHAPTER OF LUKE. 
 
 The boy was sad, yet fair. 
 The marvels of his birth were strange to hear, 
 And, to regard his gentle face and speak 
 Some fond word of him to his youthful mother 
 Seemed kindness to the humble Nazarenes 
 Who stopp'd at Mary's door; but thoughtfully. 
 She listen'd to their praises of the child — 
 So less than all she knew — and let her heart 
 Look with its answer up to God. And day 
 Followed on day, like any childhood's passing; 
 And silently sat Mary at her wlieel, 
 And watched the boy Messiah as she spun ; 
 And — as a human child, unto his mother 
 " Subject " the while — he did her low-voiced bidding. 
 Or gently came to lean upon her knee 
 And asked her of the thoughts that in him stirred 
 Dimly as yet, or with affection sweet, 
 Tell murmuring of his weariness; and there. 
 All tearful-hearted, as a human mother 
 Unutterably fond, while touch'd with awe — 
 She paused, or with a tremulous hand spun on, 
 The Messing that her lips instinctive gave, 
 Asked of Him with an instant ihoiight again. 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 79 
 
 And when they " went up to Jerusalem, 
 After the custom of the feast," and there 
 "Fulfilled the days," and back to Nazareth 
 Went a day's journey, and sought Jesus there, 
 Among their kinsfolk who had gone before, 
 And found him not — the mother's heart of Mary 
 Well knew, that wheresoever strayed the child. 
 He could not go by angels unattended ; 
 But, therefore, was her tenderness untroubled ? No. 
 Though in her memory lay Gabriel's words, 
 Brought her on wings at God's own throne unfolded; 
 Though in rapt speech, Anna the prophetess 
 Had named him the Redeemer, newly born-- 
 And Simeon, forbidden to see death 
 Till he had seen the Christ, had taken Him 
 Into his arms, and prayed that he might now 
 Depart in peace — though of the song they sang, 
 (That host, who, while the glory of the Lord 
 Shone round about, told of his birth by night 
 Unto the shepherds as they watched,) she knew 
 The burden was a work yet unfulfilled — 
 To Him the Saviour given, and yet, to do.- 
 Still was the child she loved gone from her now, 
 And Mary " sought him sorrowing." 
 
 And who 
 " Kept all his sayings in her heart " but Mary ? 
 It was not with unnatural brightness beaming 
 From the fair forehead of the boy, nor yet 
 By revelations from his infant lips 
 
80 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 Too wonurous to deny, that Jesus first 
 Gave out the dawn of the Messiah morn 
 Breaking within his soul. With wisdom only 
 Reached by the child's simplicity — so oft 
 Trtier than sage's lore — and outward pressed 
 By the divinity half conscious now, 
 He argued in the Temple, and amazed 
 The elders, seated in their midst — but none 
 In these first teachings saw the Son of God, 
 And he went back to Nazareth — a child — 
 Unsought by the disputin^^ priests again, 
 And his strange words forgotten hut by Mary^ 
 
 Who " KEPT THEM IN HER HEART." 
 
 Oh, not alone 
 In his pure teachings and in Calvary's woe. 
 Lay the blest errand of the Saviour here. 
 His walk through life's dark pathway blessed yet mora 
 Distant from God so infinitely far 
 Was human weakness, till He came to bear, 
 With us, our weaknesses awhile, that fear 
 Had heard Jehovah's voice, in thunder only, 
 And worshipped trembling. Heaven is nearer nou . 
 At God's right hand sits One who was a child, 
 Born as the humblest, and who here abode 
 TiU »f our sorrows he had suffered all. 
 They who now weep, remember that he wept. 
 The tempted, the despised, the sorrow:ng, feel 
 Tliat Jesus, too, drank of these cups of woe. 
 And oh, if of our joys he tasted less — 
 
WILLIS'3 POEMS. 81 
 
 If all but one passed from his lips away — 
 That one — a mother's love — by his partaking 
 Is like a thread of heaven spun through our h'fe^ 
 And we, in the untiring watch, the tears, 
 The tenderness and fond trust of a mother^ 
 May feel a heavenly closeness unto God — 
 For such, all human in its blest excess, 
 Was Mary's love for Jesus. 
 
 HANNAH AND SAMUEL,' 
 
 OR, 
 CONSECRATION OF A CHILIi TO ODD. 
 
 (Book of Samuel.*) 
 
 Day dawned, and Hannah look'd upon her boy. 
 She had arisen while the morning star 
 Shone through the parted curtain of the tent, 
 And wak'd the fair youug sleeper; and, once more 
 — That fondest of a mother's tasks to be 
 Her blessed happiness but this once more — 
 Had wash'd the slight limbs of her perfect child, 
 And, combing the soft ringlets that her vow 
 Would keep unshorn till death, had strained him close 
 In his unblemish'd beauty to her breast; 
 And now she girded the new vestments on, 
 Which, to his frolic infancy, were strange ; 
 Smoothing the knots of the uneven threads, 
 
 * The description of the Tabernacle at Shiloh, and Llie particular* 
 Oi" the consecration of Samuel, are as collated from the sacied writers 
 
S2 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 And half caressing him as to his form 
 
 Of symmetry she shap'd each spotless fold : 
 
 Smiling her sweet assurances the while, 
 
 In answer to his lisp of wondering words ; 
 
 Until, as rose the sun, her fair boy stood 
 
 Brave in his new apparel at her knee — 
 
 Only the little feet as yet left bare 
 
 That press'd their rosy dimples to the ground. 
 
 This, and no more, of mother's tasks to do ! 
 
 Bat, as she stoop'd to bind the sandals on — 
 
 Her face a moment hidden from her child. 
 
 And the o'erburdened eyelids giving way 
 
 With the lost balance of the cup too full— 
 
 The tears rain'd on her hands ! Of three sweet years 
 
 Loue tending of the offspring ask'd of God — 
 
 Offspring, as if her heart's pulse, brought to light^ 
 
 Had proved to be an angel, hidden there 
 
 To take her bitterest reproach away — 
 
 This was the last fond office ! 
 
 Brightly shone 
 The sun upon the Tabernacle now ; 
 And, from the holy altar in the midst 
 Rose the white smoke into the cloudless air, 
 While the wayfarers with their bullocks slain, 
 Gathor'd from tents without. They had come v.p 
 From Ramah, a day's journey, to the courts 
 Of Shiloh — Elkanah and all his house — 
 To pay unto the Lord their yearly vows, 
 Tlie incense, the burnt-offerings, oil and wine ; 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 83 
 
 And Hannah, who, in answer to the prayer 
 Here utter'd, when her barrenness she mourn' d, 
 Had borne unto her husband " a man child " — 
 Thus numbered among women well-belov'd — 
 And who had tarried till the infant boy, 
 Wean'd from her breast and nurtured by her care, 
 Could from his mother's hands be let to go, 
 Had come, in the fulfillment of her vow, 
 To consecrate her first-born unto God. 
 It was the hour of prayer. And Eli cams 
 Forth where the Tabeinacle's vail, of blue. 
 Purple and scarlet, hung beneath the sky, 
 With hooks of silver on its brazen posts. 
 Girding the altar in. The cleansing priests 
 Laid the slain bullocks on the burning coals ; 
 The wine and oil were brought ; and spices rare 
 Were swung in golden censers, to and fro, 
 While blood was sprinkled on the hallow'd ground. 
 And tow'rd the ark — (holding the Aaron's rod. 
 The golden pot of manna, and the Book 
 Of Moses' law — that Ark of many vails ; 
 Its ten of fine-twin'd linen loop'd with gold, 
 Its ten of goats'-hair with the loops of brass, 
 I(s guarding leather of the hide of beasts. 
 Its rams'- skins scarlet-dyed, and, round them all, 
 The many-colored vail of outer work) — 
 Toward this Ark, made fearful by the cloud 
 That floated high betwixt the cherubim. 
 Whose wings, miraculously still, reveal'd 
 
g4 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 The place where dwelt the presence of the Lord- 
 Turn'd Eli with his prcnyer. 
 
 The blessing sought, 
 Uprose the High Priest in his sacred robe ; 
 And took the boy, who, by his mother's hand, 
 Was led before the altar ; and, with oil 
 From out the brazen laver and with blood 
 From the burnt- offering, he anointed there 
 The tiny fingers of the chosen child — 
 The fingers that should trim the sacred lamps, 
 And lay the show-bread on the golden stands, 
 And in the temple minister with oil — 
 Thus hallowing for God those infant hands ! 
 But lo 1 as o'er his beautiful young head 
 The " linen ephod " sacredly was thrown — 
 The garment in whose spotless folds there lay 
 The symbol of his service for the Lord — 
 The Holy Spirit enter'd to the child 1 
 As Eli's blessing died upon the lip, 
 Lo ! with the uplifted hands, the child at prayei- 1 
 'Twas to be told, that such are heard in Heaven. 
 'Twas to be written in the Holy Book, 
 And read by mothers till the world should end, 
 That, on the day when consecrated first, 
 An Infant " worshipp'd God 1" 
 
 And Hannah look'd 
 On her lov'd child, as, in his prayer, he knelt, 
 Accepted or the Lord, The morrow's sun 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 85 
 
 Would see her on her journey to the home 
 Which his bright playfulness would light no more — 
 The silken curls, so dear to her awaking, 
 Miss'd from the pressure of her cheek at morn-^ 
 His tiny footfall listen'd for in vain — 
 His voice, his laugh, his murmur, silent all. 
 And for her lord — who lov'd her, before ev'n 
 Her womanhood's reproach had passed away, 
 But who, in happier days, she knew so well, 
 Lov'd more to see the mother of his boy — - 
 Her lonely chamber would be silent now I 
 Childless in Ramah she would once more be. 
 But, mourn'd the mother ? 
 
 Of the joy of one 
 Whose son can thus be " lent unto the Lord — " 
 Joy in His strength, who thus, in Samuel, 
 Proclaim'd, by miracle, the child His care — 
 Of joy for mothers, while the world should last — 
 Sang Hannah, then, the Heaven-inspir'd first song — 
 And Revelation took those mother's words ; 
 And by their hymning, now divinely writ, 
 In Holy Scripture, as with pen of fire — 
 An anthem for eternity — we know 
 That joy is for the child that's "lent to GodT 
 
86 
 
 A BIBLExSTOFtY FOR MOTHERS. 
 
 'TwAS sunset in the land where Eden was — 
 Haran, the fertile in the times of old. 
 And now the flocks, from far-off field and hill, 
 Home followed to the fold at Laban's well ; 
 And, when for them the stone was rolled away, 
 They drank, and Jacob numbered them. For such 
 As of its life had well fulfilled a day, 
 The sunset seemed the giving of it joy — 
 Joy for the horned cattle with their calves , 
 Joy for the goats with kids, the sheep with lambs ; 
 Joy for the birds, that tilted on their nests, 
 Singing till twilight should enfold their young ; 
 And, from the lowly hut beyond the well, 
 Rose the sweet laughter of the shepherd's babe ; 
 And Zilpah's son, and Billah's, on the t'ean 
 Smooth floor between the household's circling tents 
 Play'd with the children of the unloved Leah. 
 
 But, in the shadow of the tallest palm. 
 
 There stood a tent, apart. Th' untrampled grass 
 
 Told of no frolic feet tamiliar there ; 
 
 And silence reigned within its guarded room ; 
 
 And, by the half-drawn curtain of the door, 
 
 Sat one who felt her life too sorrowful 
 
 To let the greeting of the sunset in. 
 
 For, on the herds tliat watered at the well, 
 
 And on the children thai: played joyous by^ 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 87 
 
 And on the flowers, and birds, and laden trees^ 
 Each lacking naught of hfe that was its own — 
 IIow could she look and feel she was of them — 
 Rachel — the childless^ * * * 
 
 * * * * 'Twas another eve ; 
 
 And other summers had on Haran smiled — 
 
 An eve of golden glory, that, again. 
 
 Found Jacob with his flocks at Laban's well. 
 
 And now — uncovered, as at prayer — he stood. 
 
 And look'd where glowed the Bethel of his dream; 
 
 For, in the glory of that western sky, 
 
 He saw again the ladder rise to Heaven, 
 
 And the ascending and descending troop 
 
 That ministered to him who stood above — 
 
 The place none other than the house of Grod — 
 
 There, where he poured the oil upon the stone, 
 
 As he came East from Canaan. And, as wont, 
 
 In the devoutness of that evening hour, 
 
 He recognized the covenant fulfilled : 
 
 For he had food, and raiment to put on — 
 
 His cattle and his flocks in peace were there — 
 
 A God still with him, who increased his store. 
 
 And kept him in the way that he should go. 
 
 And who the holy promise would fulfill. 
 
 Dearest to Jacob in that stranger land, 
 
 To bring him to his father's house once more. 
 
 Thus prayed he, with the setting of the sun. 
 
 But, oh ! there was another gift from God, 
 
 And far more precious, though unnamed with these-, 
 
88 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 Whose joy had waited not the sunset's glovr 
 To kindle it to prayer, but whose fond fire 
 Burned a thanksgiving incense all the day — 
 /She whom he loved had borne to him a child. 
 
 And, to the tent that stood beneath the palio— 
 The tent apart, that was so shut and lone — 
 The glory of the evening entered now ; 
 The silken cord drawn eagerly and far, 
 That the sun's greeting should be all let in — 
 The rosy record of a day fulfilled 
 Being the mirror of a mother's joy — 
 For, on the floor, rejoicing in its light, 
 Lay the boy babe of Rachel. She, of all 
 The daughters of the land most fair to see- 
 Most loved, and so most needing to bestow 
 A jewel from her heart on him she loved- - 
 She who of women was reproached to be 
 Barren though beautiful — and thus unblest 
 Refusing to be comforted — behold ! 
 God had remembered her I 
 
 mother loved- 
 You who have taken to your breast the child 
 New-given from your beauty unto him 
 Whose soul is mingled in its life, the link 
 Of an immortal spirit welded now 
 Betwixt you twain forever, read you here 
 Hovr in the Scripture is your story writ! 
 The sanda of gold, from nature's running brook. 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 Were singled truly in the olden time. 
 That which wa3 holiest in our daily life, 
 Was, in inspired words, all wondrous^ly 
 First written — as the stars are set to burn — 
 Small though they seem, of an undying brightness. 
 Jacob's for Rachel was a human love — 
 A heart won by the beauty of a maid 
 Met, with her flocks, beside her father's well. 
 How beautiful was Lafcan's daughter there, 
 'Tis written ; and, how tenderly he loved, 
 Is of his lifetime made the golden thread ; 
 And, of her sorrow that she bare no child, 
 And of the taking that reproach away, 
 'Tis lessoned for the world to learn by heart- 
 Sweet as a song — " God hearkened unto her.'"' 
 And oh, the bliss of Rachel in her child — 
 Its hallowed fountain was twice Scripture-told 1 
 Look thou, oh mother, how again 'twas writ — 
 The story of thy babe as told in Heaven — 
 " And God remembered her.'' 
 
DO WILLIS'S POEMS 
 
 THOUGHTS WHILE MAKING THE GRAVE OF A 
 NEW-BOKx\ CHILD. 
 
 Room, gentle flowers! my child would pass to heaven I 
 Ye look'd not for her yet with your soft eyes, 
 
 watchful ushers at Death's narrow door ! 
 But lo! while you delay to let her forth, 
 Angels, beyond, stay for her! One long kiss 
 From lips all pale with agony, and tears, 
 Wrung after anguish had dried up with fire 
 The eyes that wept them, were the cup of life 
 Held as a welcome to her. Weep! oh mother! 
 But not that from this cup of bitterness 
 
 A cherub of the sky has turn'd away. 
 
 One look upon thy face ere thou depart ! 
 My daughter ! It is soon to let thee go ! 
 My daughter ! With thy birth has gush'd a spring 
 
 1 knew not of — filling my heart with tears, 
 And turning with strange tenderness to thee — 
 A love — oh Grod ! it seems so — that must flow 
 Far as thou fleest, and 'twixt heaven and me, 
 Henceforward, be a bright and yearning chain 
 Drawing me after thee 1 And so, farewell ! 
 
 'Tis a harsh world, in which affection knows 
 
 No place to treasure up its loved and lost 
 
 But the foul grave 1 Thou, who so late wast sleeping 
 
m 
 
 "\7arm in the close fold of a mother's heart. 
 Scarce from her breast a single pulse receiving 
 But it was sent thee with some tender thought. 
 How can I leave thee — here I Alas for man I 
 The herb in its humiUty may fall 
 And waste into the bright and genial air, 
 While we — by hands that minister'd in life 
 Nothing but love to us — are thrust away — 
 The earth flung in upon our just cold bosoms, 
 And the warm sunshine trodden out forever ! 
 
 Yet have I chosen for thy grave, my child, 
 A bank where I have lain in summer hours, 
 And thought how httle it would seem like death 
 To sleep amid such loveliness. The brook, 
 Tripping with laughter down the rocky steps 
 That lead up to thy bed, would still trip on, 
 33reaking the dread hush of the mourners gone ; 
 The birds are never silent that build here^ 
 Trying to sing down the more vocal waters . 
 The slope is beautiful with moss and flowers, 
 And far below, seen under arching leaves, 
 Glitters the warm sun on the village spire, 
 Pointing the living after thee. And this 
 Seems like a comfort ; and, replacing now 
 The flowers that have made room for thee, I go 
 To whisper the same peace to her wlio lies — 
 Robb'd of her child and lonely. 'Tis the work 
 Of many a dark hour, anrl of many a prayer, 
 To bring the heart back fiom an infant gone. 
 
92 WILLIS'S POEMS 
 
 Hope must give o'er, and busy fancy blot 
 The images from all the silent rooms, 
 And every sight and sound familiar to her 
 Undo its sweetest link — and so at last 
 The fountain — that, once struck, must flow forever- 
 Will hide and waste in silence. When the smile 
 Steals to her pallid lip again, and spring 
 Wakens the buds above thee, we will come. 
 And, standing by thy music-haunted grave. 
 Look on each other cheerfully, and say : — 
 A child that we have loved has gone to heaven, 
 And by this gate of /lowers she pass'd away 1 
 
 ON THE DEPARTURE OF REV. MR. WHITE 
 
 FROM UI8 PARISH, WHEN CHOSKN PRESIDENT OF WABASH COLLEGE. 
 
 Leave us not, man of prayer ! Like Paul, hast thou 
 " Served God with all humility of mind," 
 Dwelling among us, and " with many tears," 
 "From house to house," "by night and day not ceasing," 
 Hast pleaded thy blest errand. Leave us not I 
 Leave us^ot now ! The Sabbath-bell, so long 
 Link'd with thy voice — the prelude to thy prayer — 
 The call to us from heaven to come with thee 
 Into the house of God, and from thy lips, 
 Hear what had fall'n upon thy heart — will sound 
 
W I L L I S ' S P O E M S . 93 
 
 Lonely and mournfully when thou art gone ! 
 
 Our prayers are in thy words — our hope in Christ 
 
 Warm'd on thy Hps — our darkling thoughts of God 
 
 Follow'd thy loved call upward — and so knit 
 
 Is all our worship with those outspread hands, 
 
 And the imploring voice, which, well we knew, 
 
 Sank in the ear of Jesus — that, with thee, 
 
 The angel's ladder seems removed from sight, 
 
 ^na we astray in darkness ! — Leave us not ! 
 
 Leave not the dead I They have lain calmly down — 
 
 Tby comfort 11 heir ears — believing well 
 
 That when tnme own more holy work was done. 
 
 Thou wouldst lie down beside them, and be rear 
 
 When the last trump shall summon, to fold up 
 
 Thy flock aflfris-hted, and, with that same voice 
 
 Whose whisper'd promises could sweeten death, 
 
 Take up once more the interrupted strain. 
 
 And wait Christ's coming, saying, " Here am I, 
 
 And those whom thou hast given me!" Leave not 
 
 The old, who, 'mid the gathering shadows, cling 
 
 To their accustom'd staff, and know not how 
 
 To lose thee, and so near the darkest hour. 
 
 Leave not the penitent, whose soul may be 
 
 Deaf to the strange voice, but awake to thine ! 
 
 Leave not the mourner thou hast sooth'd — the heart 
 
 Turns to its comforter again ! Leave not 
 
 The child thou hast baptized! another's care 
 
 May not keep bright, upon the mother's heart, 
 
 The covenant seal ; the infant's ear has caugh.. 
 
 Words it has strangely ponder'd from thy lip-". 
 
94 ^^Il.LIS"S POEMSc 
 
 And tli'j remember'd tone may find again, 
 And quicken for the harvest, the first seed 
 Sown for eternity ! Leave not the chud ! 
 
 Yet if thou wilt — if, ''bound in spirit," thou 
 
 Must go, and we shall see thy face no more, 
 
 " The will of God be done 1" We do not say 
 
 Eemember us — thou wilt — in love and prayer' 
 
 And thou wilt be remember'd — ^by the dead. 
 
 When the last trump awakes them — by the old, 
 
 When, of the "silver cord,"whose strength thou knowe?!, 
 
 The last thread fails — by the bereaved and stricken, 
 
 When the dark cloud, wherein thou found'st a spct 
 
 Broke by the light of mercy, lowers again — 
 
 By the sad mother, pleading for her child, 
 
 In murmurs difficult, since thou art gone — 
 
 By aU thou leavest, when the Sabbath-bell 
 
 Brings us together, and the closing hymn 
 
 Hushes our hearts to pray, and thy loved voice, 
 
 That all our wants had grown to, (only thus, 
 
 'Twould seem, articulate to God,) falls not 
 
 Upon our listening ears — remember'd thus — 
 
 Remember'd well — in all our holiest hours — 
 
 Will be the faithful shepherd we have lost ! 
 
 And ever wi:h one prayer, for which our love 
 
 Will find the pleading words, — that m the light 
 
 Of heaven we may behold his face :nce more I 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 95 
 
 BIRTH-DAY VERSES. 
 
 "The heart that we have lain near before our birth, is the only one 
 thftt cannot forget that it has loved us." — Philip Slingsby. 
 
 My birth-day 1 — beloved mother ! 
 
 My heart is with thee o'er the seas. 
 I did not think to count another 
 
 Before I wept upon thy knees — 
 Before this scroll of absent years 
 Was blotted with thy streaming tears. 
 
 My own I do not care to check. 
 
 I weep — albeit here alone — 
 As if I hung upon thy neck, 
 
 As if thy lips were on my own, 
 As if this full, sad heart of mine, 
 "Were beating closely upon thine. 
 
 Four weary years ! How looks she now ? 
 
 What light is in those tender eyes ? 
 What trace of time has touched the brow 
 
 Whose look is borrow'd of the skies 
 That listen to her nightly prayer ? 
 How is she changed since he was there 
 Who sleeps upon her heart alway — 
 
 Whose name upon her lips is worn — 
 
90 WILLIS S POEMS. 
 
 For whom the night seems made to pray — 
 For whom she wakes to pray at morn — 
 Whose sight is dim, whose heart-strings stir, 
 Who weeps these tears — to think of her I 
 
 I know not if my mother's eyes 
 
 Would find me changed in shghter things ; 
 I've wander'd beneath many skies, 
 
 And tasted of some bitter springs ; 
 And many leaves, once fair and gay, 
 From youth's full flower have dropp'd away — 
 But, as these looser leaves depart. 
 
 The lessen'd flower gets near the core, 
 And, when deserted quite, the heart 
 
 Takes closer what was dear of yore — 
 And yearns to those who loved it first — 
 The sunshine and the dew by which its bud was nursed 
 
 Dear mother I dost thou love me yet ? 
 
 Am I remember'd in thy home ? 
 When those I love for joy are met, 
 
 Does some one wish that I would come ' 
 Thou dost — I am beloved of these ! 
 
 But, as the schoolboy numbers o'er 
 Night after night the Pleiades 
 
 And finds the stars he found before — 
 As turns the maiden oft her token — 
 
 As counts the miser aye his gold — 
 So, till life's silver cord is broken, 
 
 Would I of thy fond love be told 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 9Y 
 
 My heart is full, mine eyes are wet — 
 Dear mother ! dost thou love thy long-lost wanderer yet ? 
 
 Oh ! when the hour to meet again 
 
 Creeps on — and, speeding o'er the sea, 
 My heart takes up its lengthen'd chain, 
 
 And, link by link, draws nearer thee — 
 When land is hail'd, and, from the shore, 
 
 Comes off the blessed breath of home, 
 With fragrance from my mother's door 
 
 Of flowers forgotten when I come — 
 When port is gain'd, and, slowly now, 
 
 The old familiar paths are pass'd, 
 Andy entering — unconscious how — 
 
 I gaze upon thy face at last. 
 And run to thee, all faint and weak, 
 And feel thy tears upon my cheek — 
 
 Oh ! if my heart break not with joy, 
 The light of heaven will fairer seem ; 
 
 And I shall grow once more a boy : 
 And, mother I — 'twill be like a dream 
 
 That we were parted thus for years — 
 
 And once that we have dried our tears, 
 
 How will the days seem long and bright. — 
 To meet thee always with the morn, 
 / And hear thy blessing every night — 
 Thy " dearest;* thy " first-born !"— 
 And be no more, as now, in a strange land, forlorn 
 
08 WILLIS'S POEMS 
 
 TO MY MOTHER FROM THE APENNINES. 
 
 Mother I dear mother ! the feelings nurst 
 
 As I hung at thy bosom, clang round the e first. 
 
 'Twas the earliest link in love's warm chain — 
 
 'Tis the only one that will long remain : 
 
 And as year by year, and day by day, 
 
 Some friend still trusted drops away, 
 
 Mother ! dear mother ! oh dost thou see 
 
 How the sfiorteti'd chain brings me nearer thee ! 
 
 Eaely Po£ms. 
 
 'Tis midnight the lone mountains on — 
 The East is fleck' d with cloudy bar?, 
 
 And, gliding through them one by one, 
 The moon walks up her path of stars — 
 
 The light upon her placid brow 
 
 Received from fountains unseen now. 
 
 And happiness is mine to-night, 
 
 Thus springing from an unseen fount , 
 
 And breast and brain are warm with light, 
 With midnight round me on the mount — 
 
 Its rays, like thine, fair Dian, flow 
 
 From far that Western star below. 
 
 Dear mother ! in thy love I live ; 
 
 The life thou gav'st flows yet from thee — 
 And, sun-Uke, thou hast power to give 
 
 Life to the earth, air, sea, for me ! 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 01) 
 
 Though wandering, as this moon above, 
 I'm dark without thy constant love. 
 
 LINES ON LEAVING EUROPE. 
 
 Bright flag, at yonder tapering mast ! 
 
 Fhng out your field of azure blue ; 
 Let star and stripe be westward cast. 
 
 And point as Freedom's eagle flew I 
 Strain home ! oh lithe and quivering spars 1 
 Point home, my country's flag of stars ! 
 
 The wind blows fair ! the vessel feels 
 
 The pressure of the rising breeze, 
 And, swiftest of a thousand keels, 
 
 She leaps to the careering seas 1 
 Oh, fair, fair cloud of snowy sail. 
 
 In whose white breast I seem to lie, 
 How oft, when blew this eastern gale, 
 
 I've seen your semblance in the sky, 
 And long'd with breaking heart to flee 
 On cloud-like pinions o'er tlie sea ! 
 
 Adieu, oh lands of fame and eld ! 
 
 I turn to watch our foamy track. 
 And thoughts with which I first beheld 
 
 Yon clouded line, come hurrying back , 
 
100 WILLISS POEMS. 
 
 My lips are dry with vague desire. — 
 My cheek once more is hot with joy — 
 
 My pulse, my brain, my soul on fire ! — 
 Oh, what has changed that traveller- boy ! 
 
 As leaves the ship this dying foam, 
 His visions fade behind — his weary heart speeds home \ 
 
 Adieu, oh soft and southern shore, 
 
 Where dwelt the stars long miss'd in heaven — 
 Those forms of beauty seen no more, 
 
 Yet once to Art's rapt vision given 1 
 Oh, still th' enamor'd sun delays, 
 
 And pries through fount and crumbling fane, 
 To win to his adoring gaze 
 
 Those children of the sky again ! 
 ■ Irradiate beauty, such as never 
 
 That light on other earth hath shone, 
 Hath made this land her home forever ; 
 
 And could I live for this alone — 
 Were not my birthright brighter far 
 
 Than such voluptuous slaves, can be — 
 Held not the West one glorious star 
 
 New-born and blazing for the free — 
 Soar'd not to heaven our eagle yet — 
 Rome, with her Helot sons, should teach me to forget! 
 
 Adieu, oh fatherland I I see 
 
 Your white cliffs on th' horizon's rim, 
 
 And though to freer skies I flee, 
 
 My heart swells, and my eyes are dim I 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 101 
 
 As knows the dove the task you give her, 
 
 When loosed upon a foreign shore — 
 As spreads the rain- drop in the river 
 
 In v\rhich it may have flow'd before — 
 To England, over vale and mountain. 
 
 My fancy flew from climes more fair — 
 My blood, that knew its parent fountain, 
 
 Ran warm and fast in England's air. 
 
 Dear mother 1 in thy prayer to-night, 
 
 There come new words and warmer tears t 
 On long, long darkness breaks the light — 
 
 Comes home the loved, the lost for years I 
 Sleep safe, oh wave-worn mariner ! 
 
 Fear not, to-night, or storm or sea ! 
 The ear of heaven bends low to her ! 
 
 He comes to shore who sails with me I 
 The spider knows the roof unriven. 
 
 While swings his web, though lightnings blazt — 
 And by a thread still fast on heaven, 
 
 I know my mother Uves and prays ! 
 
 Dear mother ! when our hps can speak — 
 
 When first our tears will let us see — 
 When I can gaze upon thy cheek, 
 
 And thou, with thy dear eyes, on me — 
 'Twill be a pastime little sad 
 
 To trace what weight Time's heavy fingers 
 Upon each other's forms have had — 
 
 For all may flee, so feehng lingers 1 
 
102 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 But there's a change, beloved mother 1 
 
 To stir far deeper thoughts of thine ; 
 I come — but with me comes another 
 
 To share the heart once only mine ! 
 Thou, on whose thoughts, when sad and lonely. 
 
 One star arose in memory's heaven — 
 Thou, who hast watch' d one treasure only — 
 
 Water'd one flower with tears at even — 
 Room in thy heart I The hearth she left 
 
 Is darken'd to lend light to ours ! 
 There are bright flowers of care bereft, 
 
 And hearts — that languish more than flowers ! 
 She was their light — their very air — 
 Eoom, mother ! in thy heart ! place for her in thy prayer I 
 
 A TRUE INCIDENT. 
 
 Upon a summer's morn, a southern mother 
 
 Sat at the curtain'd window of an inn. 
 
 She rested from long travel, and with hand 
 
 Upon her cheek in tranquil happiness, 
 
 Look'd where the busy travellers went and came. 
 
 And, like the shadows of the swallows flying 
 
 Over the bosom of unruffled water, 
 
 Pass'd from her thoughts all objects, leaving there, 
 
 As in the water's breast, a mirror'd heaven — 
 
 For, in the porch beneath herj to and fro, 
 
W I L L I S S POEMS. 1 0J> 
 
 A nurse walk'd, singing with her babe in arms, 
 
 And many a passer-by look'd on the child 
 
 And praised its wondrous beauty, but still on 
 
 The old nurse troll'd her lullaby, and still, 
 
 Blest through her depths of soul by light there sliinmg, 
 
 The mother in her revery mused on. 
 
 But lo ! another traveller alighted I 
 
 And now, no more indifferent or calm, 
 
 The mother's breath comes quick, and with the blood 
 
 Warm in her cheek and brow, she murmurs low, 
 
 " Now, God be praised ! I am no more alone 
 
 In knowing I 've an angel for my child, — 
 
 Chance he to look on't only !" With a smile — 
 
 The tribute of a beauty-loving heart 
 
 To things from Grod new- moulded — would have pass'd 
 
 The poet, as the infant caught his eye ; 
 
 But suddenly he turn'd, and with his hand 
 
 Upon the nurse's arm, he stay'd her steps. 
 
 And gazed upon her burthen. 'Twas a child 
 
 In whose large eyes of blue there shone, indeed, 
 
 Something to waken wonder. Never sky 
 
 In noontide depth, or softly-breaking dawn — 
 
 Never the dew in new-born violet's cup. 
 
 Lay so entranced in purity 1 Not calm. 
 
 With the mere hush of infancy at rest. 
 
 The ample forehead, but serene with thought; 
 
 And by the rapt expression of the lips. 
 
 They seem'd scarce still from a cherubic hymn.; 
 
 And over all its countenance there breathed 
 
 Benignity, majestic as we dream 
 
104 WILLIS'S POEMS, 
 
 Angels wear ever, before Grod. With gaze 
 Earnest and njournful, and liis eyelids warm 
 With tears kept back, the poet kiss'd the cliildj 
 And chasten'd at his heart, as having pass'd 
 Close to an angel, went upon his way. 
 
 Soon after, to the broken choir in heaven 
 This cherub was recall' d, and now the mother 
 Bethought her, in her anguish, of the bard — 
 (Herself a far-off stranger, but his heart 
 Pamiliar to the world,) — and Avrote to tell him, 
 The angel he had recognized that morn, 
 Had fled to bliss again. The poet well 
 Remember'd that child's ministry to him ; 
 And of the only fountain that he knew 
 For healing, he sought comfort for the mother. 
 And thus he wrote : — 
 
 Mourn not for the child from thy tenderness riven, 
 Ere stain on its purity fell I 
 
 To thy questioning heart, lot an answer from heaven. 
 
 " Is IT WELL WITH THE CHILD ?" " It IS WELL !" 
 
 THE MOTHER TO HER CHILD. 
 
 They tell me thou art come from a far world, 
 Babe of my bosom ! that these little arras, 
 Whose restlessness is like the spread of wings. 
 Move with the memory of flights scarce o'er — 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 105 
 
 That through these fringed lids we see the soul 
 Steep'd in the blue of its remember'd home ; 
 And while thou sleep'st come messengers, they say, 
 Whispermg to thee — and 'tis then I see 
 Upon thy baby lips that smile of heaven ! 
 
 And what is thy far errand, my fair child ? 
 Why away, wandering from a home of bliss, 
 To find thy way through darkness home again ? 
 "Wert thou an untried dweller in the sky ? 
 Is there, betwixt the cherub that thou wert. 
 The cherub and the angel thou mayst be, 
 A Hfe's probation in this sadder world ? 
 Art thou with memory of two things only. 
 Music and light, left upon earth astray, 
 And, by the watchers at the gate of heaven, 
 Look'd for with fear and trembling ? 
 
 God ! who gavest 
 Into my guiding hand this wanderer, 
 To lead her through a world whose darkling paths 
 I tread with steps so faltering — leave not me 
 To bring her to the gates of heaven, alone ! 
 I feel my feebleness. Let these stay on — 
 The angels who now visit her in dreams ! 
 Bid them be near her pillow till in death 
 The closed eyes look upon Thy face once more ! 
 And let the light and music, which the world 
 Borrows of heaven, and which her infant sense 
 Hails with sweet recognition, be to her 
 A voice to call her upward, and a lamp 
 To lead her steps unto Thee ! • 
 
106 Willis's poems. 
 
 A THOUGHT OVER A CRADLE. 
 
 I SADDEN when thou smilest to my smile, 
 Child of my love 1 I tremble to believe 
 That o'er the mirror of that eye of blue 
 The shadow of my heart will always pass ; — 
 A heart that, from its struggle with the world, 
 Comes nightly to thy guarded cradle home, 
 And, careless of the staining dust it brings. 
 Asks for its idol ! Strange, that flowers of earth 
 Are visited by every air that stirs, 
 And drink in sweetness only, while the child 
 That shuts within its breast a bloom for heaven, 
 May take a blemish from the breath of love. 
 And bear the blight forever. 
 
 I have wept 
 With gladness at the gift of this fair child 1 
 My Ufe is bound up in her. But, oh God I 
 Thou know'st how heavily my heart at times 
 Bears its sweet burthen ; and if thou hast given 
 To nurture such as mine this spotless flower. 
 To bring it unpolluted unto Thee, 
 Take Thou its love, I pray Thee ! Give it light — 
 Though, following the sun, it turn from me! — 
 But, by the chord thus wrung, and by the light 
 Shining about her, draw me to my child ! 
 And Hnk us close, oh God, when near to heaven [ 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 107 
 
 ON A PICTURE OF A GIRL LEADING HER BLIND 
 MOTHER THROUGH THE WOOD. 
 
 The green leaves as we pass 
 Lay their light fingers on thee unaware, 
 And by thy side the hazels cluster fair, 
 
 And the low forest-grass 
 Grows green and silken where the wood-paths wind- 
 Alas ! for thee, sweet mother 1 thou art blind ! 
 
 And nature is all bright ; 
 And the faint gray and crimson of the dawn, 
 Like folded curtains from the day are drawn. 
 
 And evening's purple light 
 Quivers in tremulous softness on the sky — 
 Alas 1 sweet mother ! for thy clouded eye ! 
 
 The moon's new silver shell 
 Trembles above thee, and the stars float up. 
 In the blue air, and the rich tulip's cup 
 
 Is pencill'd passing well. 
 And the swift birds on glorious pinions flee — 
 Alas 1 sweet mother I that thou canst not see 1 
 
 And the kind looks of friends 
 Peruse the sad expression in thy face, 
 And the child stops amid the bounding race, 
 
 And the tall striphng bends 
 Low to thine ear with duty unforgot — 
 Alas! sweet mother! that thou seest them not! 
 
 But thou canst hear ! and love 
 May richly on a human tone be pour'd, 
 
108 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 And the least cadence of a whisper'd word 
 
 A daughter's love may prove — 
 And while I speak thou knowest if I smile, 
 Albeit thou canst not see my face the while ! 
 
 Yes, thou canst hear ! and He 
 Who on thy sightless eye its darkness hung, 
 To the attentive ear, like harps, hath strung 
 
 Heaven and earth and sea ! 
 And 'tis a lesson in our hearts to know — 
 With but one sense the soul may overflow. 
 
 CONTEMPLATION. 
 
 '.They are all up — the innumerable stars — 
 And hold their place in heaven. My eyes have been 
 Searching the pearly depths through which they spring 
 Like beautiful creations, till I feel 
 As if it were a new and perfect world, 
 Waiting in silence for the word of God 
 To breathe it into motion. There they stand. 
 Shining in order, like a living hymn 
 Written in light, awaking at the breath 
 Of the celestial dawn, and praising Him 
 Who made them, with the harmony of spheres. 
 I would I had an angel's ear to list 
 That melody. I would that I might float 
 Up in that boundless element, and feel 
 Its ravishing vibration, like the pulse 
 Bifating in heaven ! My spirit is athirst 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 109 
 
 For music — ^rarer music ! I would bathe 
 My soul in a serener atmosphere 
 Than this ; I long to mingle with the flock 
 Led by the ' living waters,' and to stray 
 In the ' green pastures' of the better land I 
 When will thou break, dull fetter ! When shall I 
 Gather my wings, and like a rushing thought 
 Stretch onward, star by star, up into heaven I" 
 Thus mused Alethe. She was one to whom 
 Life had been like the witching of a dream, 
 Of an untroubled sweetness. She was born 
 Of a high race, and lay upon the knee. 
 With her soft eyes perusing listlessly 
 The fretted roof, or, on Mosaic floors, 
 Grasp'd at the tesselated squares inwrought 
 With metals curiously. Her childhood pass'd 
 Like faery — amid fountains and green haunts — 
 Trying her httle feet upon a lawn 
 Of velvet evenness, and hiding flowers 
 In her sweet breast, as if it were a fair 
 And pearly altar to crush incense on. 
 He" youth — oh ! that was queenly ! She was like 
 A dream of poetry that may not be 
 Writtei/ or told — exceeding beautiful ! 
 And so came worshippers ; and rank bow d down 
 And breathed upon her heart-strings with the breath 
 Of pride, and bound her forehead gorgeously 
 With dazzling scorn, and gave unto her step 
 A majesty — as if she trod the sea, 
 A.nd the proud waves, unbidden, lifted her! 
 
 
110 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 And so she grew to woman — her mere look 
 Strong as a monarch's signet, and her hand 
 The ambition of a kingdom. From all this 
 Turn'd her high heart away ! She liad a mind; 
 Deep and immortal, and it would not feed 
 On pageantry. She thirsted for a spring 
 Of a serener element, and drank 
 Philosophy, and for a little while 
 She was allay' d, — till, presently, it turn'd 
 Bitter within her, and her spirit grew 
 Faint for undying waters. Then she came 
 To the pure fount of God, and is athirst 
 No more — save when the fever of the Avorld 
 Falleth upon her, she will go, sometimes, 
 Out in the star-light quietness, and breathe 
 A holy aspiration after Heaven. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A MISSIONARY 
 
 How beautiful it is for man to die 
 Upon the walls of Zion ! to be call'd. 
 Like a watch-worn and weary sentinel. 
 To put his armor off, and rest — in heaven I 
 
 The sun was setting on Jerusalem, 
 
 The deep blue sky had not a cloud, and light 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. Ill 
 
 Was pouring on the dome of Omar's mosque, 
 
 Like molten silver. Every thing was fair; 
 
 And beauty hung upon the painted fanes ; 
 
 Like a grieved spirit, lingering ere she gave 
 
 Her wing to air, for heaven. The crowds of men 
 
 "Were in the busy streets, and nothing look'd 
 
 Like wo, or suffering, save one small train 
 
 Bearing the dead to burial. It pass'd by, 
 
 And left no trace upon the busy throng. 
 
 The sun was just as beautiful ; the shout 
 
 Of joyous revelry, and the low hum 
 
 Of stirring thousands rose as constantly ! 
 
 Life look'd as winning ; and the earth and sky, 
 
 And every thing seem'd strangely bent to make 
 
 A contrast to that comment upon life. 
 
 How wonderful it is that human pride 
 
 Can pass that touching moral as it does — 
 
 Pass it so frequently, in all the force 
 
 Of mournful and most simple eloquence — 
 
 And learn no lesson ! They bore on the dead, 
 
 With the slow step of sorrow, troubled not 
 
 By the rude multitude, save, here and there, 
 
 A look of vague inquiry, or a curse 
 
 Half-muttered by some haughty Turk, whose sleeve 
 
 Had touch'd the tassel of the Christian's pall. 
 
 And Israel too pass'd on — the trampled Jew ! 
 
 Israel 1 — who made Jerusalem a throne 
 
 For the wide world — passed on as carelessly; 
 
 Giving no look of interest to tell 
 
 The shrouded dead was anything to her. 
 
112 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 Oh that they would be gather'd as a brood 
 Is gather'd by a parent's sheltering wings ! 
 
 They laid him down Avith strangers ; for his hrma 
 
 Was with the setting sun, and they who stood 
 
 And look'd so steadfastly upon his grave, 
 
 Were not his kindred ; but they found him there, 
 
 And loved him for his ministry of Christ. 
 
 He had died young. But there are silver'd heads, 
 
 Whose race of duty is less nobly run. 
 
 His heart was with Jerusalem ; and strong 
 
 As was a mother's love, and the sweet ties 
 
 Eeligion makes so beautiful at home, 
 
 He flung them from him in his eager race, 
 
 And sought the broken people of his God, 
 
 To preach to them of Jesus. There was one, 
 
 Who was his friend and helper. One who went 
 
 And knelt beside him at the sepulchre 
 
 Where Jesus slept, to pray for Israel. 
 
 They had one spirit, and their hearts were knic 
 
 With more than human love. Grod called him home. 
 
 And he of whom I speak stood up alone, 
 
 And in his broken-heartedness wrought on 
 
 Until his Master call'd him. 
 
 Oh, is it not a noble thing to die 
 As dies the Christian, with his armor on ! — 
 What is the hero's clarion, though its blast 
 Ring with the mastery of a world, to this ? — 
 What are the searchinoj victories of mind — 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 113 
 
 The lore of vanish'd ages ? — What are all 
 The trampetings of proud humanity, 
 To the short history of him who made 
 His sepulchre beside the King of kings ? 
 
 OIV THE PICTXJRE OF A " CHILD TIRED OP PLAY." 
 
 Tired of play ! Tired of play ! 
 What hast thou done this livelong day ! 
 The birds are silent, and so is the bee ; 
 The sun is creeping up steeple and tree ; 
 The doves have flown to the sheltering eaves, 
 And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves , 
 Twilight gathers, and day is done — 
 How hast thou spent it — restless one ! 
 
 Playing ? But what hast thou done beside 
 To tell thy mother at eventide ? 
 What promise of morn is left unbroken ? 
 What kind word to thy playmate spoken ? 
 Whom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven ? 
 How with thy faults has duty striven ? 
 What hast thou learn' d by field and hill, 
 By greenwood path, and by singing rill ? 
 
 There will come an eve to a longer day, • 
 That will find thee tired — but not of play ! 
 9* 
 
14 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 And thou wilt lean, as thou leanest now, 
 
 With drooping limbs and aching brow, 
 
 And wish the shadows would faster creep, 
 
 And long to go to thy quiet sleep. 
 
 Well were it then if thine aching brow 
 
 Were as free from sin and shame as now ! 
 
 Well for thee if thy lip could tell 
 
 A tale like this, of a day spent well. 
 
 If thine open hand hath reheved distress — 
 
 If thy pity hath sprung to wretchedness — 
 
 If thou hast forgiven the sore offence. 
 
 And humbled thy heart with penitence — 
 
 If Nature's voices have spoken with thee 
 
 With her holy meanings eloquently — 
 
 If every creature hath won thy love, 
 
 From the creeping worm to the brooding dove- 
 
 If never a sad, low-spoken word 
 
 Hath plead with thy human heart unheard — 
 
 Then, when the night steals on, as now, 
 
 It will bring rehef to thine aching brow. 
 
 And, with joy and peace at the thought of rest. 
 
 Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother's breast. 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. .15 
 
 A CHILD'S jPlRS'^ IMPRESSION OF A STAK. 
 
 She had been told that God made all the stars 
 That twinkled up in heaven, and now she stooa 
 Watching the coming of the twilight on, 
 As if it were a new and perfect world, 
 And this were its first eve. She stood alone 
 By the low window, with the silken lash 
 Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth 
 Half parted with the new and strange delight 
 Of beauty that she could not comprehend, 
 And had not seen before. The purple folds 
 Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky 
 That look'd so still and delicate above, 
 Fill'd her young heart with gladness, and the eve 
 Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still 
 Stood looking at the west with that half smile, 
 As if a pleasant thought were at her heart. 
 Presently, in the edge of the last tint 
 Of sunset, where the blue was melted in 
 To the faint golden mellowness, a star 
 Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight 
 Burst from her lips, and putting up her hands, 
 Her simple thought broke forth expressively — 
 " Father ! dear father ! God has made a star !'" 
 
116 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 ON WITNESSING A BAPTISM. 
 
 She stood up in the meekness of a heart 
 
 Resting on God, and held her fair young child 
 
 Upon her bosom, with its genlle eyes 
 
 Folded in sleep, as if its soul had gone 
 
 To whisper the baptismal vow in heaven. 
 
 The prayer went up devoutly, and the lips 
 
 Of the good man glow'd fervently with faith 
 
 That it would be, even as he had pray'd, 
 
 And the sweet child be gather'd to the fold 
 
 Of Jesus. As the holy words went on 
 
 Her hps moved silently, and tears, fast tears, 
 
 Stole from beneath her lashes, and upon 
 
 The forehead of the beautiful child lay soft 
 
 With the baptismal water. Then I thought 
 
 That, to the eye of God, that mother's tears 
 
 AVould be a deeper covenant — which sin 
 
 And the temptations of the world, and death. 
 
 Would leave unbroken — and that she would know 
 
 In the clear Hght of heaven, how very strong 
 
 The prayer which press'd them from her heart had been 
 
 In leading its young spirit up to God. 
 
AVILLIS'S POEMS 
 
 REVERIE AT GLENMARY. 
 
 I HAVE enough, God ! My heart to-night 
 Runs over with its fulness of content ; 
 And as I look out on the fragrant stars, 
 And from the beauty of the night take in 
 My priceless portion — yet myself no more 
 Than in the universe a grain of sand — 
 I feel His glory who could make a world, 
 Yet in the lost depths of the wilderness 
 Leave not a flower unfinish'd ! 
 
 Rich, though poor I 
 My low-roof d cottage is this hour a heaven. 
 Music is in it — and the song she sings, 
 That sweet- voiced wife of mine, arrests the ear 
 Of my young child awake upon her knee ; 
 And with his calm eye on his master's face, 
 My noble hound lies couchant — -and all here — 
 All in this little home, yet boundless heaven — 
 Are, in such love as I have power to give, 
 Blessed to overflowing. 
 
 Thou, who look'st 
 Upon my brimming heart this tranquil eve, 
 Knowest its fulness, as thou dost the dew 
 Sent to the hidden violet by Thee ; 
 Anrl, as that flower, from its unseen abode. 
 
118 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 Sends its sweet breath up, duly, to the sky, 
 Changing its gift to incense, so, oh God ! 
 May the sweet drops that to my humble cup 
 Find their far way from heaven, send up, to Tbae 
 Fragrance at thy throne welcome ! 
 
 TO A CITY PIGEON. 
 
 Stoop to my window, thou beautiful dove • 
 Thy daily visits have touch'd my love. 
 I watch thy coming, and list the note 
 That stirs so low in thy mellow throat, 
 
 And my joy is high 
 To catch the glance of thy gentle eye. 
 
 Why dost thou sit on the heated eaves. 
 
 And forsake the wood with its freshen'd leaves f 
 
 Why dost thou haunt the sultry street, 
 
 When the paths of the forest are cool and sweet? 
 
 How canst thou bear 
 This noise of people — this sultry air ? 
 
 Thou alono of the feather'd race 
 
 Dost look unscared on the human face ; 
 
 Thou alone, with a wing to flee, 
 
 Dost love with man in his haunts to be ; 
 
 And the " gentle dove" 
 Has become a name for trust and love. 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 119 
 
 A holy gift is thine, sweet bird ! 
 Thou'rt named with childhood's earUest word ! 
 Thoa'rt link'd with all that is fresh and wild 
 In the prison'd thoughts of the city child ; 
 
 And thy glossy wings 
 Are its brightest image of moving things. 
 
 It is no light chance. Thou art set apart, 
 Wisely by Him who has tamed thy heart, 
 To stir the love for the bright and fair 
 That else were seal'd in this crowded air ; 
 
 I sometimes dream 
 Angelic rays from thy pinions stream. 
 
 Come then, ever, when daylight leaves 
 The page I read, to my humble eaves, 
 And wash thy breast in the hollow spout^ 
 And murmur thy low sweet music out I 
 
 I hear and see 
 Lessons of heaven, sweet bird, in thee I 
 
 THE BELFRY PIGEOJf. 
 
 On the cross-beam under the Old South bell 
 The nest of a pigeon is builded well. 
 In summer and winter that bird is tiiere, 
 Out and in with the morning air : 
 
120 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 I love to see him track the street, ' 
 
 With his wary eye and active feet ; 
 And I often watch him as he springs, 
 Circling the steeple with easy wings, 
 Till across the dial his shade has pass'd. 
 And the belfry edge is gain'd at last. 
 'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note. 
 And the trembling throb in its mottled throat; 
 There's a human look in its swelling breast, 
 And the gentle curve of its lowly crest ; 
 And I often stop with the fear I feel — 
 He runs so close to the rapid wheel. 
 
 Whatever is rung on that noisy bell — 
 Chime of the hour or funeral knell — 
 The dove in the belfry must hear it well. 
 When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon- 
 When the sexton cheerly rings for noon — 
 When the clock strikes clear at morning light — 
 When the child is waked with " nine at night" — 
 When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air. 
 Filling the spirit with tones of prayer — 
 Whatever tale in the bell is heard. 
 He broods on his folded feet unstirr'd. 
 Or, rising half in his rounded nest. 
 He takes the time to smooth his breast, 
 Then drops again with filmed eyes. 
 And sleeps as the last vibration dies. 
 
 Sweet bird ! I would that I could be 
 A hermit in the crowd Uke thee ! 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 121 
 
 With wings to fly to wood and glen, 
 
 Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men ; 
 
 And daily, with unwilling feet, 
 
 I tread, like thee, the crowded street ; 
 
 But, unlike me, when day is o'er, 
 
 Thou canst dismiss the world and soar. 
 
 Or, at a half-felt wish for rest, 
 
 Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast, 
 
 And drop, forgetful, to thy nest. 
 
 SATURDAY AFTERNOON. 
 
 [written for a PICTtTKE.l 
 
 I LOVE to look on a scene like this. 
 
 Of wild and careless play, 
 And persuade myself that I am not old, 
 
 And my locks are not yet- gray ; 
 For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart, 
 
 And makes his pulses fly. 
 To catch the thrill of a happy voice, 
 
 And the light of a pleasant eye. 
 
 I have walked the world for fourscore years ; 
 
 And they say that I am old. 
 That my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death, 
 
 And my years are well nigh told. 
 10 
 
122 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 It is very true ; it is very true ; 
 
 I'm old, and "I bide my time;" 
 But my lieart will leap at a scene like this, 
 
 And I half renew my prime. 
 
 Play on, play on ; I am with you there, 
 
 In the midst of your merry ring ; 
 I can feel the thrill of the daring jump, 
 
 And the rush of the breathless swing, 
 I hide with you in the fragrant hay. 
 
 And I whoop the smother'd call, 
 And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, 
 
 And I care not for the fall. 
 
 I am willing to die when my time shall come, 
 
 And I shall be glad to go ; 
 For the world at best is a weary place, 
 
 And my pulse is getting low ; 
 But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail 
 
 In treading its gloomy way ; 
 And it wiles my heart from its dreariness, 
 
 To see the young so gay. 
 
 THE SABBATH. 
 
 It was a pleasant morning, in the time 
 When the leaves fall — and the bright sun shone out 
 As when the morning stars first sang together — 
 So quietly and calmly fell his light 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 123 
 
 Upon a world at rest. There was no '.eaf 
 111 motion, and the loud winds slept, and all 
 Was still. The lab'ring herd was grazing 
 Upon the hill-side quietly — uncalled 
 By the harsh voice of man ; and distant sound, 
 Save from the murmuring waterfall, came not 
 As usual on the ear. One hour stole on, 
 And then another of the morning, calm 
 And still as Eden ere the birth of man. 
 And then broke in the Sabbath chime of bells — 
 And the old man, and his descendants, went 
 Together to the house of God. I join'd 
 The well-apparell'd crowd. The holy man 
 Rose solemnly, and breathed the prayer of faith — 
 And the gray saint, just on the wing for heaven — 
 And the fair maid — and the bright-hair'd young man — 
 And child of curhng locks, just taught to close 
 The lash of its blue eye the while ; — all knelt 
 In attitude of prayer — and then the hymn, 
 Sincere in its low melody, went up 
 
 To worship God. M 
 
 The white-hair'd pastor rose 4(^ 
 
 And look'd upon his flock — and with an eye 
 That told his interest, and voice that spoke. 
 In tremulous accents, eloquence hke Paul's, 
 He lent Isaiah's fire to the truths 
 Of revelation, and persuasion came 
 Like gushing waters from his lips, till hearts 
 Unused to bend were soflen'd, and the eye 
 Unwont to weep sent forth the willing tear. 
 
124 vTILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 I went my way — but as I went, I felt 
 How well it was that the world-weary soul 
 Should have its times to set its burden do^,VTL 
 
 NATION HYMN. 
 
 THE CONSECRATION OF HANO' tR-STB SET 
 'TRCH, BOSTON.] 
 
 The perfect world by Adam trod, 
 Was the first temple — built by Grod — 
 His fiat laid the corner-stone, 
 And heaved its pillars, one by one. 
 
 He hung its starry roof on high — 
 
 The broad illimitable sky ; 
 
 He spread its pavement, green and bright, 
 
 And curtain'd it with morning light. 
 
 The mountains in their places stood — 
 The sea — the sky — and " all was good ;" 
 And when its first pure praises rang, 
 The " morning stars together sang.'' 
 
 Lord ! 'tis not ours to make the sea 
 And earth and sky a house for thee ; 
 But in thy sight our ofF'ring stands — 
 A humbler temple, " made with hands,'' 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. yjt 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 [wRtTTEK TO BK aXTNG AT THE DEDICATION OF THE HOrSE OF INDUSTRY 
 AND HOME FOE TUE FRIENDLESS, DECEMBER, 1S48.] 
 
 When God, to shield from cold and storm, 
 Gave trees to build and fire to warm, 
 Ho did not mark for each his part, 
 But gave to each a human heart. 
 
 Each heart is told the poor to aid, — 
 Not told as thunder makes afraid — 
 But by a small voice whispering there : 
 Mnd thou for God the sufferer's share. 
 
 Oh, prompting faint, to careless view, 
 For work that angels well might do 1 
 But wisely thus is taught below, 
 Quick pity for another's wo. 
 
 The world is stored — enough for all 
 Is scatter'd wide 'twixt hut and hall ; 
 And those who feast or friendless roam, 
 Alike from God received a home. 
 
 Each houseless one demands of thee. 
 Can aught thou hast the poor maris he ? 
 And pity breathes response divine, 
 Take what I have from God that's thine. 
 10* 
 
126 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 For child, for woman's fragile form, 
 More harsh the cold, more wild the storm; 
 But most they bless the shelf ring door, 
 Whom dark temptations urge no more. 
 
 A Home for these, God, to-day, 
 For blessing at thy feet we lay ; 
 And may its shelter, humbly given, 
 Be but a far-oflf door to heaven. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 THE DYING ALCHYMIST. 
 
 The night wind with a desolate moan swept by ; 
 And the old shutters of the turret swung 
 Screaming upon their hinges ; and the moon, 
 As the torn edges of the clouds flew past, 
 Struggled aslant the stain'd and broken panes 
 So dimly, that the watchful eye of death 
 Scarcely was conscious when it went and came. 
 ********* 
 The fire beneath his crucible was low ; 
 Yet still it burn'd ; and ever as his thoughts 
 G-rew insupportable, he raised himself 
 Upon his wasted arm, and stirr'd the coals 
 With difficult energy, and when the rod 
 Fell from his nerveless fingers, and his eye 
 Felt faint within its socket, he shrunk back 
 Upon his pallet, and with unclosed lips 
 Mutter'd a curse on death I The silent room, 
 From its dim corners, mockingly gave back 
 His rattling breath ; the humming in the fire 
 Had the distinctness of a knell ; and when 
 Duly the antique horologe beat one, 
 He drew a phial from beneath his head, 
 
130 WILLIS'3 POEMS. 
 
 And drank. And instantly his lips compressed, 
 And, with a shudder in his skeleton frame, 
 He rose with supernatural strength, and sat 
 Upright, and communed with himself: — 
 
 I did not think to die 
 Till I had finish'd what I had to do ; 
 I thought to pierce th' eternal secret through 
 
 With this my mortal eye ; 
 I felt — oh God ! it seemeth even now 
 This cannot be the death-dew on my brow I 
 
 And yet it is — I feel, 
 Of this dull sickness at my heart, afraid I 
 And in my eyes the death-sparks flash and fade . 
 
 And something seems to steal 
 Over my bosom like a frozen hand — 
 Binding its pulses with an icy band. 
 
 And this is death ! But why 
 Feel I this wild recoil ? It cannot be 
 Th' immortal spirit shuddereth to be free I 
 
 Would it not leap to fly, 
 Like a chain'd eaglet at its parent's call ? 
 I fear — I fear — that this poor life is all I 
 
 Yet thus to pass away ! — 
 To live but for a hope that mocks at last-- 
 To agonize, to strive, to watch, to fast, 
 
 To waste the light of day, 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 13, 
 
 Night's better beauty, feeling, iancy, thought, 
 All that we have and are — toi' this- -for naught I 
 
 Grant me another year, 
 God of my spirit ! — but a day — to win 
 Sometliing to satisfy this thirst "within! 
 
 I would hnow something here ! 
 Break for me but one seal that is unbroken I 
 Speak for me but one word that is unspoken ! 
 
 Yain — vain ! — my brain is turning 
 With a swift dizziness, and my heart grows sick, 
 And these hot temple-throbs come fast and thick, 
 
 And I am freezing — burning — 
 Dying ! Oh God ! if I might only live I 
 My phial Ha ! it thrills me — I revive I 
 
 Ay — were not man to die, 
 He were too mighty for this narrow sphere I 
 Had he but time to brood on knowledge here — 
 
 Could he but train his eye — 
 Might he but wait the mystic word and hour — 
 Only his Maker would transcend his power 1 
 
 Earth has no mineral strange — 
 Th' illimitable air no hidden wings — 
 Water no quality in covert springs. 
 
 And fire no power to change — 
 Seasons no mystery, and stars no spell, 
 Which the unwasting soul might not compel 
 11 
 
132 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 Oh, but for time to track 
 The upper stars into the pathless sky — 
 To see th' invisible spirits, eye to eye — 
 
 To hurl the lightning back — 
 To tread unhurt the sea's dim-lighted halls — 
 T'> chase Day's chariot to the horizon -walls — 
 
 And more, much more — for now 
 The life-sealea fountains of my nature move — 
 To nurse and purify this human love — 
 
 To clear the godlike brow 
 Of weakness and mistrust, and bow it down, 
 Worthy and beautiful, to the much-loved one — 
 
 This were indeed to feel 
 The soul-thirst slaken at the living stream — 
 To live — oh God ! that life is but a dream I 
 
 And death Aha ! I reel — 
 
 Dim — dim — I faint — darkness comes o'er my eye — 
 Cover me ! save me 1 God of heaven ! I die I 
 
 'Twas morning, and the old man lay alone. 
 No friend had closed his eyelids, and his lips, 
 Open and ashy pale, th' expression wore 
 Of his death-struggle. His long, silvery hair 
 Lay on his hollow temples thin and wild, 
 His frame was wasted, and his features wan 
 And haggard as with want, and in his palm 
 His nails were driven deep, as if the throe 
 Of the last agony had wrung him sore. 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 133 
 
 The storm was raging still. The shutters swung 
 Screaming as harshly in the fitful wind, 
 And all without went on — as aye it will. 
 Sunshine or tempest, reckless that a heart 
 Is breaking, or has broken, in its change. 
 
 The fire beneath the crucible was out ; 
 The vessels of his mystic art lay round, 
 Useless and cold as the ambitious hand 
 That fashion'd them, and the small rod, 
 Familiar to his touch for threescore years, 
 Lay on th' alembic's rim, as if it still 
 Might vex the elements at its master's will. 
 
 And thus had pass'd from its unequal frame 
 A soul of fire — a sun-bent eagle stricken 
 From his high soaring down — an instrument 
 Broken with its own compass. Oh hoAv poor 
 Seems the rich gift of genius, when it lies. 
 Like the adventurous bird that hath out-flown 
 His strength upon the sea, ambition-wreck' d — • 
 A thing the thrush might pity, as she sits 
 Broodiug in quiet on her lowly nest ! 
 
134 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 PARRHASIUS. 
 
 *■ parrliasius, a painter of Athens, among those Olynthian captives 
 Phi'.., J or Macedon brought home to sell, bought one very old man; 
 And when he had him at his house, put him to death with extreme 
 iorture aid torment, the better, by his example, to express the pains 
 r.nd passions of his Prometheus, whom he was then about to paint." 
 ■^Burtons Anat. of Md. 
 
 There stood an unsold captive in the mart, 
 
 ^ ^Tay-haired and majestical old man, 
 
 Chain'd to a pillar. It was almost night, 
 
 And the last seller from his place had gone, 
 
 And not a sound was heard but of a dog 
 
 Cruncliing beneath the stall a refuse bone, 
 
 Or the dull echo from the pavement rung. 
 
 As the faint captive changed his weary feet 
 
 He had stood there since morning, and had borne 
 
 From every eye in Athens the cold gaze 
 
 Of curious scorn. The Jew had taunted him 
 
 For an Olynthian slave. The buyer came 
 
 And roughly struck his palm upon his breast. 
 
 And touch'd his unheal'd wounds, and with a sneer 
 
 Pass'd on ; and when, with weariness o'erspent, 
 
 He bow'd his head in a forgetful sleep, 
 
 Th' inhuman soldier smote him, and, with threats 
 
 Of torture to his children, summon'd back 
 
 The ebbing blood into his pallid face. 
 
 'Twas evening, and the half-descended sun 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 135 
 
 Tipp'd with a golden fire the many domes 
 
 Of Athens, and a yellow atmosphere 
 
 Lay rich and dusky in the shaded street 
 
 Through which the captive gazed. He had borne up 
 
 With a stout heart that long and weary day, 
 
 Haughtily patient of his many wrongs, 
 
 But now he was alone, and from his nerves 
 
 The needless strength departed, and he lean'd 
 
 Prone on his massy chain, and let his thoughts 
 
 Throng on him as they would. Unmark'd of him, 
 
 Parrhasius at the nearest pillar stood, 
 
 Gazing upon his grief. Th' Athenian's cheek 
 
 Flush'd as he measured with a painter's eye 
 
 The moving picture. The abandon'd Umbs, 
 
 Stain'd with the oozing blood, were laced with veins 
 
 Swollen to purple fulness ; the gray hair, 
 
 Thin and disorder'd, hung about his eyes ; 
 
 And as a thought of wilder bitterness 
 
 Eose in his memory, his lips grew white, 
 
 And the fast workings of his bloodless face 
 
 Told what a tooth of fire was at his heart, 
 
 ******** 
 
 The golden light into the painter's room 
 
 Stream'd richly, and the hidden colors stole 
 
 From the dark pictures radiantly forth, 
 
 And in the soft and dewy atmosphere 
 
 Like forms and landscapes magical they lay. 
 
 The walls were hung with armor, and about 
 
 In the dim corners stood the sculptured forms 
 
 Of Cvtheris, and Dian, and stern Jove, 
 
 n* 
 
ICJ WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 And from the casement soberly away- 
 Fell the grotesqae long shadows, full and true, 
 And hke a veil of filmy mellowness, 
 The lint-spects floated in the twilight air, 
 Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully 
 Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay, 
 Chain'd to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus — 
 The vulture at his vitals, and the links 
 Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh ; 
 And, as the painter's mind felt through the dim, 
 Rapt mystery, and pluck'd the shadows forth 
 With its far reaching fancy, and with form 
 And color clad them, his fine, earnest eye, 
 Plash'd with a passionate fire, and the quick curl 
 Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip 
 Were like the wing'd God's, breathing from his flight 
 
 '' Bring me the captive now ! 
 My hand feels skilful, and the shadows lift 
 From my waked spirit airily and swift, 
 
 And I could paint the bow 
 Upon the bended heavens — around me play 
 Colors of such divinity to-day. 
 
 " Ha ! bind him on his back ! 
 Look ! — as Prometheus in my picture here ! 
 Quick — or he faints 1 — stand with the cordial near! 
 
 Now — bend him to the rack ! 
 Press down the poison' d links into his flesh I 
 And tear agape that healing wound afresh I 
 
WILLIS'S rOEMS. 137 
 
 " So— let him writhe I Ho w long 
 Will he live thus ? Quick, my good pencil, now ! 
 What a fine agony works upon his brow ! 
 
 Ha ! gray-hair' d, and so strong ! 
 How fearfully he stifles that short moan ! 
 Gods ! if I could but paint a dying groan I 
 
 ^ 
 
 "'Pity' thee! So I do I 
 I pity the dumb victim at the altar — 
 But does the robed priest for his pity falter ? 
 
 I'd rack thee though I knew 
 A thousand lives were perishing in thine — 
 What were ten thousand to a fame like mine ? 
 
 "'Hereafter!' Ay — hereafter! 
 A whip to keep a coward to his track 1 
 What gave Death ever from his kingdom back 
 
 To check the skeptic's laughter ? 
 Come from the grave to-morrow with that story - 
 And I may take some softer path to glory. 
 
 " No, no, old man I we die 
 Even as the flowers, and we shall breathe away 
 Our life upon the chance wind, even as they ! 
 
 Strain well thy fainting eye — 
 For when that bloodshot quivering is o'er, 
 The light of heaven will never reach thee more. 
 
 " Yet there's a deathless name ! 
 A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn. 
 
138 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 And like a steadfast planet mount and bum — - 
 
 And though its crown of flame 
 Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone, 
 By all the fiery stars ! I'd bind it on ! 
 
 " Ay — though it bid me rifle 
 My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst — 
 Though every life-strung nerve be madden'd fiist— 
 
 Though it should bid me stifle 
 The yearning in my throat for my sweet child, 
 And taunt its mother till my brain went wild — 
 
 "All— I would do it ail- 
 Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot — 
 Thrust foully into earth to be forgot I 
 
 Oh heavens ! — but I appal 
 
 Tour heart, old man ! forgive ^ha ! on your lives 
 
 Let him not faint ! — rack him till he revives ! 
 
 " Vain — vain — give o'er ! His eye 
 Glazes apace. He does not feel you now — 
 Stand back ! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow ! 
 
 Grods ! if he do not die 
 But for one moment — one — till I eclipse 
 Conception with the scorn of those calm lips I 
 
 " Shivering ! Hark ! ho mutters 
 Brokenly now — that was a difficult breath — 
 Another ? Wilt thou never come, oh Death 1 
 
 Look ! how his temple flutters ! 
 
WILLIS S POEM a 159 
 
 Is his heart still ? Aha 1 lift up his head 1 
 
 He shudders — gasps — Jove help him ! — so — he's dead." 
 
 How like a mounting devil in the heart 
 
 Rules the unrein'd ambition I Let it once 
 
 But play the monarch, and its haughty brow 
 
 Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought 
 
 And unthrones peace forever. Putting on 
 
 The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns 
 
 The heart to ashes, and with not a spring 
 
 Left in the bosom for the spirit's lip. 
 
 We look upon our splendor and forget 
 
 The thirst of which we perish I Yet hath life 
 
 Many a falser idol. There are hopes 
 
 Promising well ; and love-touch'd dreams for some ; 
 
 And passions, many a wild one ; and fair schemes 
 
 For gold and pleasure — yet will only this 
 
 Balk not the soul — Ambition only, gives, 
 
 Even of bitterness, a beaker full I 
 
 Friendship is but a slow awaking dream, 
 
 Troubled at best — Love is a lamp unseen, 
 
 Burning to waste, or, if its light is found. 
 
 Nursed for an idle hour, then idly broken — 
 
 Gain is a grovelling care, and Folly tires. 
 
 And Quiet is a hunger never fed — 
 
 And from Love's very bosom, and from Gain, 
 
 Or Folly, or a Friend, or from Repose — 
 
 From all but keen Ambition — will the soul 
 
 Snatch the first moment of forgetful nesr 
 
140 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 To wander like a restless child awaj. 
 
 Oh, if there were not better hopes than these--" 
 
 Were there no palm beyond a feverish fame — 
 
 If the proud wealth flung back upon the heart 
 
 Must canker in its coffers — if the links 
 
 Falsehood hath broken will unite no more — 
 
 If the deep-yearning love, that hath not found 
 
 Its like in the cold world, must waste in tears — 
 
 If truth, and fervor, and devotedness, 
 
 Finding no worthy altar, must return 
 
 And die of their own fulness — if beyond 
 
 The grave there is no heaven in whose wide air 
 
 The spirit may find room, and in the love 
 
 Of whose bright habitants the lavish heart 
 
 May spend itself — what thrice-mock' d fools are wet 
 
 THE SCHOLAR OF THEBET BEN KHORAT.* 
 
 " Influentia coeli morbum hunc movet, interdiim omnibus nliis 
 tLmoi\s:'—Melanctho7i de Anima, Cap. de Humorihus. 
 
 I. 
 
 Night in Arabia. An hour ago, 
 
 Pale Dian had descended from the sky, 
 
 • A famous Arabian astrologer, who is said to have spent forty years 
 in discovering the motion of the ei^lith sphere. He had a scholar, a 
 young Codouin Arab, who, with a singular passion for knowledge, 
 abandoned his wand.-ring tribe, and applying himself too closely to 
 astrology, lost his reason and died. 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 141 
 
 Flinging her cestus out upon the sea. 
 
 And at their watches, now, the solemn stars 
 
 Stood vigilant and lone ; and, dead asleep, 
 
 "With not a shadow moving on its bieast, 
 
 The breathing earth lay in its silver dew, 
 
 And, trembUng on their myriad viewless wings, 
 
 Th' imprison'd odors left the flowers to dreain, 
 
 And stole away upon the yielding air. 
 
 Ben Khorat's tower stands shadowy and toll 
 
 In Mecca's loneliest street ; and ever there, 
 
 When night is at the deepest, burns his lamp 
 
 As constant as the Cynosure, and forth 
 
 From his loop'd window stretch the brazen tubes, 
 
 Pointing forever at the central star 
 
 Of that dim nebula just lifting now 
 
 Over Mount Arafat. The sky to-night 
 
 Is of a clearer blackness than is wont, 
 
 And far within its depths the colored stars* 
 
 Sparkle like gems — capricious Antarest 
 
 Flushing and paling in the Southern arch ; 
 
 * '-Even to the naked eye, the stars appear of palpably different 
 colors ; but when viewed with a prismatic glass, they may be very 
 accurately classed into the red, the yellow, the brilliant white, the dull 
 white, and the anomalous. This is true also of the planets, which 
 shine by reflected light, and of course the difference of color must be 
 supposed to arise from their different powers to absorb and rcfloct tho 
 rrys of the sun. The oricinal composition of the stars, and the different 
 dispersive powers of their different atmospheres, may be supposed to 
 account also for this phenomenon." 
 
 t This star exhibits a peculiar quality — a rapid and beautiful change 
 in the color of its lifiht; every alternate twinklinsr beinsr of an intense 
 reddish crimson color, and the answering one of a brilliant white. 
 
112 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 And azure Lyra, like a woman's eye, 
 
 Burning with soft blue lustre ; and aw'r.y 
 
 Over the desert the bright Polar star, 
 
 White as a flashing icicle ; and here, 
 
 Hung like a lamp above th' Arabian sea, 
 
 Mars with his dusky glow ; and fairer yet, 
 
 Mild Sirius,* tinct with dewy violet. 
 
 Set Hke a flower upon the breast of Eve ; 
 
 And in the zenith the sweet Pleiades,t 
 
 (Alas — that even a star may pass from heaven 
 
 And not be miss'd !) — the hnked Pleiades 
 
 Undimm'd are there, though from the sister band 
 
 The fairest has gone down ; and. South away, 
 
 HirundoJ with its little company ; 
 
 And white-Lrow'd Vesta, lamping on her path 
 
 Lonely and planet-calm, and, all through heaven, 
 
 Articulate almost, they troop to-night. 
 
 Like unrobed angels in a prophet's trance. 
 
 Ben Khorat knelt before his telescope,§ 
 Gazing with earnest stillness on the stars. 
 The gray hairs, struggUng from his turban- folds, 
 Play'd with the entering wind upon his cheeks, 
 
 * When seen with a prismatic glass, Sirius shows a large brush of 
 exceedingly beautiful rays. 
 
 f Tlie Pleiades are vertical In Arabia. 
 
 X An Arabic constellation placed instead of the Piscis Australis, be- 
 cause the swallow arrives in Arabia about the time of the heliacal rising 
 of the Fishes. 
 
 § An anachronism, the author is aware. The telescope was not in- 
 vented for a century or two after the time of Ben Kliorat. 
 
Willis's poems. 143 
 
 And on his breast his venerable beard 
 With supernatural whiteness loosely fell. 
 The black flesh swell' d about his sandal-thongs, 
 Tight with his painful posture, and his lean 
 And wither'd fingers to his knees were clench'd, 
 And the thin lashes of his straining eye 
 Lay with unwinking closeness to the lens, 
 Stiffen'd with tense up-turning. Hour by hour, 
 Till the stars melted in the flush of morn, 
 The old astrologer knelt moveless there, 
 Ravish' d past pain with the bewildering spheres, 
 And, hour by hour, with the same patient thought, 
 Pored his pale scholar on the characters 
 Of Chaldee writ, or, as his gaze grew dim 
 With weariness, the dark- eyed Arab laid 
 His head upon the window and look'd forth 
 Upon the heavens awhile, until the dews 
 And the soft beauty of the silent night 
 Cool'd his flush'd eyelids, and then patiently 
 He turned unto his constant task again. 
 
 The sparry glinting of the Morning Star 
 Shot through the leaves of a majestic palm 
 Fringing Mount Arafat, and, as it caught 
 The eye of the rapt scholar, he arose 
 And clasp'd the volume with an eager haste, 
 And as the glorious planet mounted on. 
 Melting her way into the upper sky, 
 He breathlessly gazed on her : — 
 12 
 
ii WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 '' Star of the silver ray 1 
 Bright as a god, but punctual as a slave — 
 What spirit the eternal canon gave 
 
 That bends thee to thy way ? 
 What is the soul that, on thine arrowy light. 
 Is walking earth and heaven in pride to-night ? 
 
 '' We know when thou wilt soar 
 Over the mount — thy change, and place, and time— 
 'Tis written in the Chaldee's mystic rhyme 
 
 As 'twere a priceless lore ! 
 I knew as much in my Bedouin garb — 
 Coursing the desert on my flying barb ! 
 
 " How oft amid the tents 
 Upon Sahara's sands I've walk'd alone. 
 Waiting all night for thee, resplendent one 1 
 
 With what magnificence, 
 In the last watches, to my thirsting eye, 
 Thy passionate beauty flush'd into the sky! 
 
 " Oh Grod I how flew my soul 
 Ojit to thy glory — upward on thy ray^ — 
 Panting as thou ascend edst on thy way, 
 
 As if thine own control — 
 This searchless spirit that I cannot find — 
 Had set its radiant law upon my mind I 
 
 " More than all stars in heaven 
 1 felt thee in my heart ! my love became 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 145 
 
 A frenzy, and consumed me with its flame. 
 
 Ay, in the desert even — 
 My dark-eyed Abra coursing at my side— 
 The star, not Abra, was my spirit's bride I 
 
 " My Abra is no more ! 
 My ' desert-bird' is in a stranger's stall — 
 My tribe, my tent — I sacrificed them all 
 
 For this heart-wasting lore ! — 
 Yet, than all these, the thought is sweeter far— 
 Thou wert ascendant at my birth, bright star! 
 
 " The Chaldee calls me thine — 
 And in this breast, that I must rend to be 
 A spirit upon wings of light like thee, 
 
 I feel that thou art mine ! 
 Oh God ! that these dull fetters would give way 
 And let me forth to track thy silver ray 1" 
 
 * * * * Ben Khorat rose 
 And silently look'd forth upon the East. 
 The dawn was steaHng up into the sky 
 Ou its gray feet, the stars grew dim apace, 
 And faded, till the Morning Star alone, 
 Soft as a molten diamond's liquid fire, 
 Burn'd in the heavens. The morn grew freshlier— 
 Thg upper clouds were faintly toucli'd with gold ; 
 The fan-palms rustled in the early air ; 
 Daylight spread cool and broadly to the hilla ; 
 And still the star was visible, and sul! 
 
146^ WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 The young astronomer with straining eye 
 Drank its departing hght into his soul. 
 It faded — melted — and the fiery rim 
 Of the clear sun came up, and painfully 
 The passionate scholar press'd upon his eyes 
 His dusky fingers, and, with limbs as weak 
 As a sick child's, turn'd fainting to his couch, 
 And slept. ****** 
 
 * * It was the morning watch once more, 
 
 The clouds were drifting rapidly above, 
 
 And dim and fast the glimmering stars flew through, 
 
 And as the fitful gust sough'd mournfully, 
 
 The shutters shook, and on the sloping roof 
 
 Plash'd, heavily, large, single drops of rain — 
 
 And all was still again. Ben Khorat sat 
 
 By the dim lamp, and, while his scholar slept, 
 
 Pored on the Chaldee wisdom. At his feet, 
 
 Stretch'd on a pallet, lay the Arab boy, 
 
 Muttering fast in his unquiet sleep. 
 
 And working his dark fingers in his palms 
 
 Convulsively. His sallow lips were pale. 
 
 And, as they moved, his teeth show'd ghastly through, 
 
 White as a charnel bone, and — closely drawn 
 
 Upon his sunken eyes, as if to press 
 
 Some frightful image from the bloodshot balls — 
 
 His lids a moment quiver'd, and again 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 14^ 
 
 Relax'd, half open, in a calmer sleep. 
 
 Ben Khorat gazed upon the dropping sands 
 
 Of the departing hour. The last white grain 
 
 Fell through, and with the tremulous hand of age 
 
 The old astrologer reversed the glass ; 
 
 And, as the voiceless monitor went on, 
 
 Wasting and wasting with the precious hour, 
 
 He look'd upon it with a moving lip, 
 
 And, starting, turn'd his gaze up the heavens, 
 
 Cursing the clouds impatiently. 
 
 "'Tistimel" 
 Mutter'd the dying scholar, and he dash'd 
 The tangled hair from his black eyes away, 
 And, seizing on Ben Khorat's mantle-folds, 
 He struggled to his feet, and falling prone 
 Upon the window-ledge, gazed steadfastly 
 Into the East : — 
 
 " There is a cloud between — 
 She sits this instant on the mountain's brow, 
 And that dusk veil hides all her glory now — 
 
 Yet floats she as serene 
 
 Into the heavens ! Oh God ! that even so 
 
 I could o'ermount my spirit-clowd, and go 1 
 
 " The cloud begins to drift 1 
 Aha I fling open ! 'tis the star — the sky 1 
 Touch me, immortal mother ! and I fly I 
 
 "Wider ! thou cloudy rift ! 
 12* 
 
148 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 Let through I — such glory should have radiant room i 
 Let through ! — a star-child on its light goes home I 
 
 '' Speak to me, brethren bright ! 
 Ye who are floating in these living beams ! 
 Ye who have come to me in starry dreams I 
 
 Ye who have wing'd the hght 
 Of our bright mother with its thoughts of flame — 
 — (I knew it pass'd through spirits as it came) — 
 
 " Tell me ! what power have ye ? 
 What are the heights ye reach upon your wings ? 
 What know ye of the myriad wondrous things 
 
 I perish but to see ? 
 Are ye thought-rapid ? — Can ye fly as far — 
 As instant as a thought, from star to star ? 
 
 '' Where has the Pleiad gone ? 
 Where have all missing stars* found light and home? 
 Who bids the Stella Miraf go and come ? 
 
 • "Missing stars" are often spoken of in the old books of astrono^ny. 
 Hipparchus mentions one that appeared and vanished very suddenly * 
 and in the beginning of the sixteenth century, Kepler discovered a 
 new star near the heel of the right foot of Serpentarius, "so bright and 
 sparkling that it exceeded any thing he had ever seen before." Ho 
 "took notice that it was every moment changing into some of the col- 
 ors of the rainbow, except when it was near the horizon, when it was 
 generally white." It disappeared in the following year, and has not 
 been seen since. 
 
 t A wonderful star in the neck of the Whale, discovered by Fabrl- 
 cius in the fifteenth century. It appears and disappears seven times in 
 «x years, and continues in the greatest lustre for fifteen days together 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 149 
 
 Why sits the Pole-star lone? 
 And why, hke banded sisters, through the air 
 Go in bright troops the constellations fair ? 
 
 '' Ben Khorat ! dost thou mark ? 
 The star! the star? By heaven! the cloud drifts o'er! 
 Gone — and I live I nay — will my heart beat more ? 
 
 Look ! master I 'tis all dark ! 
 Not a clear speck in heaven?— -my eyeballs smother! 
 Break through the clouds once more ! oh starry mother! 
 
 " I will He down ! Yet stay, 
 The rain beats out the odor from the gums, 
 And strangely soft to-night the spice-wind comes! 
 
 I am a child alway 
 When it is on my forehead ! Abra sweet ! 
 Would I were in the desert at thy feet ! 
 
 " My barb ! my glorious steed ! 
 Methinks my soul would mount upon its track 
 More fleetly, could I die upon thy back ! 
 
 How would thy thrilling speed 
 Quicken my pulse ! — Oh Allah ! I get wild ! 
 Would that I were once more a desert child ! 
 
 "Nay — nay — I had forgot! 
 My mother ! my star mother 1 — Ha ! my breath 
 Stifles ! more air ! Ben Khorat 'i this is — death I 
 
 Touch me ! 1 feel you noil 
 
150 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 Dying! — Farewell 1 good master 1 — room! more room! 
 Abra! I loved thee 1 star! bright star! I come!" 
 
 How idlj of the human heart we speak. 
 
 Giving it gods of clay ! How worse than vain 
 
 Is the school homily, that Eden's fruit 
 
 Cannot be pluck' d. too freely from " the tree 
 
 Of good and evil." Wisdom sits alone, 
 
 Topmost in heaven ; — she is its light — its God ! 
 
 And in the heart of man she sits as high — ■ 
 
 Though grovelling eyes forget her oftentimes. 
 
 Seeing but this world's ido^s. The pure mind 
 
 Sees her forever : and in youth we come 
 
 Fill'd with her sainted ravishment, and kneel. 
 
 Worshipping God through her sweet altar-fires, 
 
 And then is knowledge " good." We come too oft — 
 
 The heart grows proud with fulness, and we soon 
 
 Look with licentious freedom on the maid 
 
 Throned in celestial beauty. There she sits, 
 
 Robed in her soft and seraph lovelines?, 
 
 Instructing and forgiving, and we gaze 
 
 Until desire grows wild, and, with our hands 
 
 Upon her very garments, are struck down, 
 
 Blasted with a consuming fire from heaven ! 
 
 Yet, oh ! how full of music from her lips 
 
 Breathe the calm tones of wisdom ! Human praise 
 
 Is sweet — till envy mars it, and the touch 
 
 Of new- won gold stirs up the pulses well ; 
 
 And woman's love, if in a beggar's lamp 
 
 'Twould burn, might light us clearly through the world; 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 151 
 
 But Knowledge hath a far more 'wildering tongue, 
 And she will stoop and lead you to the stars, 
 And witch you with her mysteries — till gold 
 Is a forgotten dross, and power and fame 
 Toys of an hour, and woman's careless love, 
 Light as the breath that breaks it. He who binds 
 His soul to knowledge steals the key of heaven — 
 But 'tis a bitter mockery that the fruit 
 May hang within his reach, and when, with thirst 
 Wrought to a maddening frenzy, he would taste — 
 It bums his lips to ashcvS ' 
 
 THE WIFE'S APPEAL. 
 
 " Love borrows greatly from opinion. Pride, above all thiag^ 
 strengthens aflFection."— E. L. Bulweb. 
 
 He sat and read. A book with silver clasps, 
 
 All gorgeous with illuminated Unes 
 
 Of gold and crimson, lay upon a frame 
 
 Before him. 'Twas a volume of old time ; 
 
 And in it were fine mysteries of the stars 
 
 Solved with a cunning wisdom, and strange thonghtt 
 
 Half prophecy, half poetry, and dreams 
 
 Clearer than truth, and speculations wild 
 
 That touch'd the secrets o^ your very soul. 
 
 They were so based on Nature. \^ ith a face 
 
 Grlowing with thought, he pored upon the book. 
 
152 WILLIS'S POEMS 
 
 The cushions of an Indian loom hy soft 
 
 Beneath his hmbs, and, as he turn'd the page, 
 
 The sunhght, streaming through the curtain's fold, 
 
 Fell with a rose-tint on his jewell'd hand; 
 
 And the rich woods of the quaint furniturP 
 
 Lay deepening their vein'd colors in the sun, 
 
 And the stain'd marbles en the pedestals 
 
 Stood like a silent company — Voltaire, 
 
 With an infernal sneer upon his lips ; 
 
 And Socrates, with godlike human love 
 
 Stamp'd on his countenance ; and orators 
 
 Of times gone by that made them ; and old bards 
 
 And Medicean Venus, half divine. 
 
 Around the room were shelves of dainty lore, 
 
 And rich old pictures hung upon the walls 
 
 Where the slant light fell on them ; and wrought gems. 
 
 Medallions, rare mosaics, and antiques 
 
 From Herculaneum, the niches fill'd; 
 
 And on a table of enamel, wrought 
 
 With a lost art in Italy, there lay 
 
 Prints of fair women, and engravings rare, 
 
 And a new poem, and a costly toy ; 
 
 And in their midst a massive lamp of bronze 
 
 Burning sweet spices constantly. Asleep 
 
 Upon the carpet couch'd a graceful hound, 
 
 Of a rare breed, and, as his master gave 
 
 A murmur of delight at some sweet line, 
 
 He raised his slender head, and kept his eye 
 
 Upon him till the pleasant smile had pass'd 
 
 From his mild lips, and then he slept again. 
 
Willis's poems 153 
 
 The light beyond the crimson folds grew dusk, 
 
 And the clear letters of the pleasant book 
 
 Mingled and blurr'd, and the lithe hound rose up, 
 
 And, with his earnest eye upon the door, ' 
 
 Listen'd attentively. It came as wont — ■ 
 
 The fall of a light foot upon the stair — 
 
 And the fond animal sprang out to meet 
 
 His mistress, and caress the ungloved hand,. 
 
 He seem'd to know was beautiful. She stoop' d 
 
 Gracefully down and touch' d his silken ears 
 
 As she pass'd in — then, with a tenderness, 
 
 Half playful and half serious, she knelt 
 
 Upon the ottoman and press'd her lips 
 
 Upon her husband's forehead. 
 
 She rose and put the curtain-folds aside 
 From the high window, and look'd out upon 
 The shining stars in silence. "Look they not 
 Like Paradises to thine eye ? " he said — 
 But, as he spoke, a tear fell through the light — 
 And — starting from his seat — he folded her 
 Close to his heart, and — with unsteady voice — 
 Ask'd — if she was not happy. A faint smile 
 Broke through her tears; and pushing oft' the hair 
 From his broad forehead, she held back his head 
 With her white hand, and, gazing on his face, 
 Gave to her heart free utterance : — 
 
 " Happy ? — yes, dearest ! — blest 
 Beyond the limit of my wildest dream — 
 
154 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 Too bright, indeed, my blessings ever seem ; 
 
 There hves not in my breast 
 One of Hope's promises by Love unkept, 
 And yet — forgive me, Ernest — I have wept. 
 
 " How shall I speak of sadness, 
 And seem not thankless to my God and thee ? 
 How can the lightest wish but seem to be 
 
 The very whim of madness ? 
 Yet, oh, there is a boon thy love beside — • 
 And I will ask it of thee — in my pride I 
 
 " List, while my boldness lingers ! 
 If thou hadst won yon twinkling star to hear thee — 
 I f thou couldst bid the rainbo w's curve bend near thee — 
 
 If thou couldst charm thy fingers 
 To weave for thee the sunset's tent of gold — 
 Wouldst in thine own heart treasure it untold ? 
 
 " If thou hadst Ariel's gift, 
 To course the veined metals of the earth — 
 If thou couldst wind a fountain to its birth — 
 
 If thou couldst know the drift 
 Of the lost cloud that sail'd into the sky — 
 Wouldst keep it for thine own unanswer'd eye? 
 
 " It is thy life and mine ! — 
 Thou, in thyself — and T 1- thee — misprison 
 Gifts like a circle of bright stars unrisen — 
 
 For thou whose mind should shine, 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 155 
 
 Eminent as a planet's light, art here — 
 Moved with the starting of a woman's tear I 
 
 " I have told o'er thy powers 
 In secret, as a miser tells his gold ; 
 I know thy spirit calm, and true, and bold: 
 
 I've watch'd thy lightest hours. 
 And seen thee, in the wildest flush of youth, 
 Touch'd with the instinct ravishment of truth. 
 
 *' Thou hast the secret strange 
 To read that hidden book, the human heart ; 
 Thou hast the ready writer's practised art ; 
 
 Thou hast the thought to range 
 The broadest circles Intellect hath ran — 
 And thou art God's best work — an honest man I 
 
 " And yet thou slumberest here 
 Like a caged bird that never knew its pinions, 
 And others track in glory the dominions 
 
 Where thou hast not thy peer — 
 Setting their weaker eyes unto the sun. 
 And plucking honor that thou shouldst have won. 
 
 " Oh, if thou lovedst me ever, 
 Ernest, my husband ! — if th' idolatry 
 That lets go heaven to fling its all on thee — 
 
 If to dismiss thee never 
 In dream or prayer, have given me aught to claim — 
 Heed me — oh, heed me ! and awake to fame !" 
 13 
 
150 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 Her lips 
 Closed with an earnest sweetness, and she sat 
 Glazing into his eyes as if her look 
 Search'd their dark orbs for answer. The warm blood 
 Into his temples mounted, and across 
 His countenance the flush of passionate thoughts 
 Pass'd with irresolute quickness. He rose up 
 And paced the dim room rapidly awhile, 
 Calming his troubled mind ; and then he came 
 And laid his hand upon her orbed brow. 
 And in a voice of heavenly tenderness 
 Answer'd her : — 
 
 " Before I knew thee, Mary, 
 Ambition was my angel. I did hear 
 Forever its witch'd voices in mine ear ; 
 
 My days were visionary — 
 My nights were like the slumbers of the mad— ■ 
 And every dream swept o'er me glory-clad. 
 
 " I read the burning letters 
 Of warlike pomp, on History's page, alone ; 
 I counted nothing the struck widow's moan; 
 
 I heard no clank of fetters ; 
 I only felt the trumpet's stirring blast, 
 And lean-eyed Famine stalk'd unchallenge-l past I 
 
 " I heard with veins of lightning 
 The utterance of the Statesman's word o.^ power- 
 Binding and loosing nations in an hour — 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 357 
 
 But, while my eye was bright'ning, . 
 A mask'd detraction breathed upon his fame, 
 And a cursed serpent slimed his written name. 
 
 " The Poet rapt mine ears 
 With the transporting music that he sung. 
 With fibres from his life his lyre he strung, 
 
 And bathed the world in tears — 
 And then he turn'd away to muse apart, 
 And Scorn stole after him — and broke his heart I 
 
 " Yet here and there I saw 
 One who did set the world at calm defiance, 
 And press right onward with a bold reUance ; 
 
 And he did seem to awe 
 The very shadows pressing on his breast. 
 And, with a strong heart, held himself at rest. 
 
 " And then I look'd again — 
 And he had shut the door u[)on the crowd, 
 And on his face he lay and groan'd aloud — 
 
 Wrestling with hidden pain ; 
 And in her chamber sat his wife in tears. 
 And his sweet babes grew sad with whisper'd fears. 
 
 " And so I turn'd sick-hearted 
 From the bright cup away, and, in my sadness, 
 Search'd mine own bosom for some spring of gladness 
 
 And lo! a fountain started 
 
158 Willis's poems. 
 
 Whose waters even in death flow calm and fast. 
 And my wild fever-thirst was slaked at last, 
 
 " And then J met thee, Mary, 
 And felt how lov«^ niay into fulness pour, 
 Like light into a fountain running o'er : 
 
 And I did hope to vary 
 My life but with surprises sweet as this — 
 A dream — but for thy waking — fiU'd with bliss. 
 
 " Yet now I feel my spirit 
 Bitterly stirr'd, and — nay, lift up thy brow ! 
 It is thine own voice echoing to thee now, 
 
 And thou didst pray to hear it — 
 I must unto my work and my stern hours I 
 Take from my room thy harp, and books, and flowers I 
 
 -P T» T* 'i^ 'H 'H A TTpflT* 
 
 And in his room again he sat alone. 
 His frame had lost its fulness in that time ; 
 His manly features had grown sharp and thin, 
 And from his lips the constant smile had faded. 
 Wild fires had burn'd the languor from his eye : 
 The lids look'd fever'd, and the brow was bent 
 With an habituiil frown. He was much changed. 
 His chin was resting on his clenched hand, 
 And with his foot he beat upon the floor, 
 Unconsciously, the time of a sad tune. 
 Thoughts of the past prey'd on him bitterly. 
 
WILLI SS POEMS. 159 
 
 He had won power and held it. He had walk'd 
 Steadily upward in the eye of Fame, 
 And kept his truth unsullied — but his h:-:ne 
 Had been invaded by envenom' d tongues ; 
 His wife — his spotless wife — ^had been assail'd 
 By slander, and his child had grown afraid 
 To come to him — his manner was so stern. 
 He could not speak beside his own hearth freely. 
 His friends were half estranged, and vulgar men 
 Presumed upon their services and grew 
 Familiar with him. He'd small time to sleep, 
 And none to pray ; and, with his heart in fetter?, 
 He bore harsh insults silently, and bow'd 
 Respectfully to men who knew he loathed them I 
 And, when his heart was eloquent with truth. 
 And love of country, and an honest zeal 
 Burn'd for expression, he could find no words 
 They would not misinterpret with their lies. 
 What were his many honors to him now ? 
 The good half doubted, falsehood was so strong-^ 
 His home was hateful with its cautious fears — 
 His wife lay trembling on his very breast 
 Frighted with calumny ! — And this is FAME I 
 13* 
 
100 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 M EL AN I K. 
 
 I STOOD on yonder rocky brow,* 
 
 And marvell'd at the Sibyl's fane, 
 When I was not what I am now. 
 
 My life was then untouch'd of pain;; 
 And, as the breeze that stirr'd my hair, 
 
 My spirit freshen'd in the sky. 
 And all things that were true and fair 
 
 Lay closely to my loving eye, 
 With nothing shadowy between — 
 I was a boy of seventeen. 
 Yon wondrous temple crests the rock — 
 
 As light upon its giddy base, 
 As stirless with the torrent's shock, 
 
 As pure in its proportion'd grace, 
 And seems a thing of air — as then, 
 Afloat above this fairy glen ; 
 
 But though mine eye will kindle still 
 In looking on the shapes of art, 
 
 The link is lost that sent the thrill, 
 Like lightning instant to my heart. 
 
 The story is told during a walk around tlie Cascatellcs of TivolL 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 161 
 
 And thus may break, before we die, 
 Th' electric chain 'twixt soul and eye 1 
 
 Ten years — like yon bright valley, sown 
 
 Alternately with weeds and flowers — 
 Had swiftly, if not gaily, flown. 
 
 And still I loved the rosy Hours ; 
 And if there lurk'd within my breast 
 
 Some nerve that had been overstrung 
 And quiver'd in my hours of rest, 
 
 Like bells by their own echo rung, 
 I was with Hope a masquer yet. 
 
 And well could hide the look of sadness ,• 
 And, if my heart would not forget, 
 
 I knew, at least, the trick of gladness ; 
 And when another sang the strain, 
 I mingled in the old refrain. 
 
 'Twere idle to remember now. 
 
 Had I the heart, my thwarted schemes. 
 I bear beneath this alter' d brow 
 
 The ashes of a thousand dreams — 
 Some wrought of wild Ambition's fingers, 
 
 Some color'd of Love's pencil well — 
 But none of which a shadow lingers, 
 
 And none whose story I could tell. 
 Enough, that when I climb'd again 
 
 To Tivoli's romantic steep. 
 Life had no joy, and scarce a pain. 
 Whose wells I harl not tastod deep ; 
 
i&2 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 And from my lips the thirst had pass'd 
 j?0". every fount save one — the sweetest — and the last 
 
 The last — the last ! My friends were dead, 
 
 Or false ; my mother in her grave ; 
 Above my father's honor'd head 
 
 The sea had lock'd its hiding wave ; 
 Ambition had but foil'd my grasp, 
 And love had perish'd in my clasp ; 
 
 And still, I say, I did not slack 
 My love of life, and hope of pleasure, 
 
 But gathered my affections back ; 
 And, as the miser hugs his treasure 
 
 When plague and ruin bid him flee, 
 I closer clung to mine — my loved, lost Melanie 1 
 
 The last of the De Brevern race. 
 
 My sister claim'd no kinsman's care ; 
 And, looking from each other's face. 
 
 The eye stole upward unaware — 
 For there was naught whereon to lean 
 Each other's heart and heaven between — 
 
 Yet that was world enough for me ; 
 And, for a brief but blessed while. 
 
 There seem'd no care for Melanie 
 If she could see her brother smile ! 
 
 But life with her was at the flow, 
 And every wave went sparkling higher, 
 
 While mine was ebbing, fast and low, 
 From the same shore of vain desire; 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. f^S 
 
 And knew I, with prophetic heart, 
 That we were wearing, aye, insensibly apart. 
 
 n. 
 
 We came to Italy. I felt 
 
 A yearning for its sunny sky ; 
 My very spirit seem'd to melt 
 
 As swept its first warm breezes by. 
 From lip and cheek a chilling mist, 
 
 From life and soul a frozen rime, 
 By every breath seem'd softly kiss'd — 
 
 God's blessing on its radiant clime 1 
 It was an endless joy to me 
 
 To see my sister's new delight ; 
 From Venice in its golden sea 
 
 To Poestura in its purple light — 
 By sweet Val d'Arno's tinted hills — 
 
 In Vallombrosa's convent gloom — 
 'Mid Terni's vale of singing rills — 
 
 By deathless lairs in solemn Rome — 
 In gay Palermo's " Golden Shell" 
 At Arethusa's hidden well — 
 
 We loiter'd like th' impassion'd sun — 
 That slept so lovingly on all, 
 
 And made a home of every one — 
 Ruin, and fane, and waterfall — 
 
 And crown'd the dying day with glory 
 If we had seen, since morn, but one old haunt of storj' 
 
164 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 We came with Spring to Tivoli. 
 
 My sister loved it laughing air 
 And merry waters, though, for me, 
 My heart was in another key ; 
 
 And sometimes I could scarcely bear 
 The mirth of their eternal play, 
 
 And, Hke a child that longs for home 
 When weary of its holiday, 
 
 I sigh'd for melancholy Rome. 
 Perhaps — the fancy haunts me still — 
 'Twas but a boding sense of ill. 
 
 It was a morn, of such a day 
 
 As might have dawn'd on Eden first, 
 Early in the Italian May. 
 
 Yine-leaf and flower had newly burst, 
 And on the burthen of the air 
 The breath of buds came faint and rare ; 
 
 And far in the transparent sky 
 The small, earth-keeping birds were seen 
 
 Soaring deliriously high ; 
 And through the clefts of newer green 
 
 Yon waters dash'd their living pearls ; 
 And with a gayer smile and bow 
 
 Troop'd on the merry village-girls ; 
 And from the Contadino's brow 
 
 The low-slouch' d hat was backward thrown^ 
 
 With air that scarcely seem'd his own ; 
 And Melanie, with lips apart, 
 
 And clf'-^Ded hands upon my arm, 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 165 
 
 Flung open her impassioD'd heart. 
 
 And bless'd life's mere and breathing charm; 
 And sang old songs, and gather'd flowers, 
 And passionately bless'd once more life's thrilling hours. 
 
 In happiness and idleness 
 
 We wander'd down yon sunny vale — 
 Oh mocking eyes ! — a golden tress 
 
 Floats back upon this summer gale ! 
 A foot is tripping on the grass ! 
 
 A laugh rings merry in mine ear ! 
 I see a bounding shadow pass ! — 
 
 God ! my sister once was here ! 
 Come with me, friend ! — We rested yon I 
 
 There grew a flower she pluck'd and wore I 
 She sat upon this mossy stone — 
 
 That broken fountain running o'er 
 With the same ring, like silver beUs. 
 
 She listen' d to its babbling flow, 
 And said, " Perhaps the gossip tells 
 
 Some fountain-nymph's love-story now I" 
 And as her laugh rang clear and wild, 
 A youth — a painter — pass'd and smil'd. 
 
 He gave the greeting of the morn 
 With voice that linger'd in mine ear. 
 
 I knew him sad and gentle born 
 
 By those two words — so calm and clear. 
 
 His frame was slight, his forehead high 
 And swept by threads of raven hair, 
 
1C6 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 The fire of thought was ia his eye, 
 And he was pale and marble fair, 
 
 And Grecian chisel never caught 
 
 The soul in those slight features wrought. 
 I watch'd his graceful step of pride, 
 
 Till hidden by yon leaning tree, 
 And loved him ere the echo died ; 
 
 And so, alas I did Melanie ! 
 
 We sat and watch'd the fount awhile 
 
 In silence, but our thoughts were one ; 
 And then arose, and, with a smile 
 
 Of sympathy, we saunter'd on ; 
 And she by sudden fits was gay. 
 And then her laughter died away. 
 
 And in this changefulness of mood, 
 (Forgotten now those May -day spells,) 
 
 We turn'd where Varro's villa stood, 
 And gazing on the Casc;i.telles, 
 
 (Whose hurrying waters wild and white 
 
 Seem madden'd as they burst to light,) 
 I chanced to turn my eyes away. 
 
 And lo I upon a bank, alone, 
 The youthful painter, sleeping, lay ! 
 
 His pencils on the grass were thrown. 
 And by his side a sketch was flung, 
 
 And near him as I lightly crept, 
 
 To see the picture as he slept. 
 Upon his feet he lightly sprung ; 
 
 And gazing with a wild surprise. 
 
Willis's poems. 167 
 
 Upon the face of Melanie, 
 
 He said — and dropp'd his earnest eyes — 
 " Forgive me ! but I dream'd of thee !" 
 His sketch, the while, was in my hand, 
 
 And, for the hnes I look'd to trace — 
 A torrent by a palace spann'd, 
 Half classic and half fairy-land — 
 
 I only found — my sister's face 1 
 
 in. 
 
 Our life was changed. Another love 
 
 In its lone woof began to twine ; 
 But ah ! the golden thread was wove 
 
 Between my sister's heart and mine 1 
 She who had lived for me before — 
 
 She who had smiled for me alone — 
 Would live and smile for me no more ! 
 
 The echo to my heart was gone I 
 It seem'd to me the very skies 
 Had shone tnrougn tnose averted eyes ; 
 
 The air had breathed of balm — the flower 
 Of radiant beauty seem'd to be — 
 
 But as she loved them, hour by hour, 
 And murmur'd of that love to mel 
 Oh, though it be so heavenly high 
 
 The selfishness of earth above, 
 That, of the watchers in the sky. 
 
 He sleeps who guards a brother's love — 
 Though to a sister's present weal 
 14 
 
168 WILLIS S POEMS. 
 
 The deep devotion far transcends 
 The utmost that the soul can feel 
 
 For even its own higher ends — 
 Though next to Grod, and more than heaven 
 For his own sake, he loves her, even — 
 
 *Tis difficult to see another, 
 A passing stranger of a day, 
 
 Who never hath been friend or brother, 
 Pluck with a look her heart away — 
 
 To see the fair, unsullied brow, 
 Ne'er kiss'd before without a prayer, 
 
 Upon a stranger's bosom now, 
 Who for the boon took little care — 
 
 Who is enrich' d, he knows not why— 
 Who suddenly hath found a treasure 
 
 Golconda were too poor to buy. 
 And he, perhaps, too cold to measure — 
 (Albeit, in her forgetful dream, 
 Th' unconscious idol happier seem,) 
 
 'Tis difficult at once to crush 
 The rebel mourner in the breast. 
 
 To press the heart to earth, and hush 
 Its bitter jealousy to rest — 
 
 And difficult — the eye gets dim. 
 
 The hp wants power — to smile on him I 
 
 I thank sweet Mary Mother now. 
 
 Who gave me strength those pangs to hide- 
 
 And touch'd mine eyes and lit my brow 
 With sunshine that my heart belied. 
 
WILLIS S POEMS. 169 
 
 I never spoke of wealth or race 
 
 To one who ask'd so much from me — 
 
 I look'd but in my sister's face, 
 
 And mused if she would happier be •, 
 
 And hour by hour, and day by day, 
 I loved the gentle painter more, 
 And, in the same soft measure, wore 
 
 My selfish jealousy away ; 
 
 And I began to watch his mood. 
 
 And feel, with her, love's trembling care, 
 And bade God bless him as he woo'd 
 
 That loving girl so fond and fair. 
 
 And on my mind would sometimes press 
 A fear that she might love him less. 
 
 But Melanie — I little dream'd 
 
 What spells the stirring heart may raovj — 
 Pygmalion's statue never seem'd 
 
 More changed with life, than she with lovel 
 The pearl-tint of the early dawn 
 
 Flush'd into day-spring's rosy hue — • 
 The meek, moss-folded bud of morn 
 
 Flung open to the light and dew — 
 The first and half-seen star of even 
 Wax'd clear amid the deepening heaven— 
 
 Similitudes perchance may be 1 
 But these are changes oftener seen, 
 
 And do not image half to me 
 My sister's change of face and nuen. 
 
170 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 'Twas written in her very air 
 
 That Love had pass'd and enter'd there. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A calm and lovely paradise 
 
 Is Italy, for minds at ease. 
 The sadness of its sunny skies 
 
 Weighs not upon the lives of these. 
 The ruin'd aisle, the crumbling fane, 
 
 The broken column, vast and prone — 
 It may be joy — it may be pain — 
 
 Amid such wrecks to walk alone ! 
 The saddest man will sadder be, 
 
 The gentlest lover gentler there — 
 As if, whate'er the spirit's key. 
 
 It strengthen'd in that solemn air. 
 
 The heart soon grows to mournful things, 
 
 And Italy has not a breeze 
 But comes on melancholy wings ; 
 
 And even her majestic trees 
 Stand ghostlike in the Caesars' home, 
 
 As if their conscious roots were set 
 In tlie old graves of giant Rome, 
 
 And drew their sap all kingly yet I 
 And every stone your feet beneath 
 
 Is broken from some mighty thought ; 
 And sculptures in the dust still breathe 
 
 The fire with which their lines were wrousrht; 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 171 
 
 And sunder'd arch, and plunder'd tomb 
 Still thunder back the echo, " Rome!" 
 
 Yet, gaily o'er Egeria's fount 
 
 The ivy flings its emerald veil, 
 And flowers grow fair on Numa's mount, 
 
 And light-sprung arches span the dale; 
 And soft, from Caracalla's baths, 
 
 The herdsman's song comes down the breeze, 
 While climb his goats the giddy paths 
 
 To grass-grown architrave and frieze ; 
 And gracefully Albano's hill 
 
 Curves into the horizon's line ; 
 And sweetly sings that classic rill ; 
 
 And fairly stands that nameless shrine ; 
 And here, oh, many a sultry noon 
 And starry eve, that happy June, 
 
 Came Angelo and Melanie ! 
 And earth for us was all in tune — 
 For wliile Love talk'd witli them, Hope walk'd apart 
 with me I 
 
 I shrink from the embitter' d close 
 
 Of my own melancholy tale. 
 'Tis long since I have waked my woes — 
 
 And nerve and voice together fail 1 
 The throb beats faster at my brow. 
 
 My brain feels warm with starting tears, 
 14* 
 
17? WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 And I shall weep — but heed not thou ! 
 
 'Twill soothe awhile the ache of years ! 
 The heart transfix'd — worn out with grief- 
 Will turn the arrow for rehef. 
 
 The painter was a child of shame ! 
 
 It stirr'd my pride to know it first, 
 Tor I had question'd but his name, 
 
 And thought, alas 1 I knew the worst, 
 Believing him unknown and poor. 
 His blood, indeed, was not obscure ; 
 
 A high-born Conti was his mother, 
 But, though he knew one parent's face, 
 
 He never had beheld the other, 
 Nor knew his country or his race. 
 
 The Roman hid his daughter's shame 
 Within St. Mona's convent wall, 
 
 And gave the boy a painter's name — ■ 
 And little else to live withal ! 
 
 And, with a noble's high desires 
 Forever mounting in his heart. 
 
 The boy consumed with hidden fires, 
 But wrought in silence at his art ; 
 
 And sometimes at St. Mona's shrine. 
 Worn thin with penance harsh and long, 
 
 He saw his mother's form divine, 
 And loved her for their mutual wrong. 
 I said my pride was stirr'd — but no ! 
 
 The voice that told its bitter tale 
 Was touch' d so mournfully with wo, 
 
WILLIS'S P0E3IS. 173 
 
 And, as he ceased, all deathlj^ pale, 
 He loosed the hand of Melanie, 
 And gazed so gaspingly on me — 
 
 The demon in my bosom died ! 
 "Not thine," I said, "another's guilt; 
 
 I break no hearts for silly pride ; 
 So, kiss yon weeper if thou wiltl" 
 
 St. Mona's morning mass was done, 
 
 The shrine-lamps struggled with the day; 
 And rising slowly, one by one, 
 
 Stole the last worshippers away. 
 The organist play'd out the hymn, 
 
 The incense, to St. Mary swung, 
 Had mounted to the cherubim. 
 
 Or to the pillars thinly clung; 
 And boyish chorister replaced 
 
 The missal that was read no more, 
 And closed, with half irreverent haste. 
 
 Confessional and chancel door; 
 And as, through aisle and oriel pane, 
 
 I'he sun wore round his slanting beam, 
 The dying martyr stirr'd again, 
 
 And warriors battled in its gloam ; 
 And costly tomb and sculptured knight 
 Show'd warm and wondi'ous in the light. 
 
 I have not said that Melanie 
 Was radiantly fair — 
 
174 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 Tliis earth again may never see 
 
 A loveliness so rai-e ! 
 She glided up St. Mona's aisle 
 
 That morning as a bride, 
 And, full as was my heart the while, 
 
 I bless'd her in my pride ! 
 The fountain may not fail the less 
 
 Whose sands are golden ore, 
 And a sister for her loveliness, 
 
 May not be loved the more ; 
 But as, the fount's full heart beneath, 
 
 Those golden sparkles shine, 
 My sister's beauty seem'd to breathe 
 
 Its brightness over mine ! 
 
 St. Mona has a chapel dim 
 
 Within the altar's fretted pale, 
 Where faintly comes the swelling hymn, 
 
 And dies, half lost, the anthem's waii. 
 And here, in twilight meet for prayer, 
 
 A single lamp hangs o'er the sliiino, 
 And Eaphael's Mary, soft and fair, 
 
 Looks down with sweetness half divine 
 And here St. Mona's nuns alway 
 Through latticed bars are seen to pray. 
 
 Ave and sacrament were o'er, 
 
 And Angelo and Melanie 
 Still knelt the holy shrine before \ 
 
 But prayer that morn was not ror me I 
 
W I L L I S S POEMS. ] 75 
 
 Mj iieart was lock'd 1 The lip might stir, 
 
 The frame might agonize — and yet, 
 Oh God ! I could not pray for her ! 
 A seal upon my brow was set — 
 My brow was hot — my brain oppress' d — 
 And fiends seem'd muttering round, " Your bridal la 
 unblest I" 
 
 With forehead to the lattice laid. 
 
 And thin, white fingers straining through, 
 A nun the while had softly pray'd. 
 
 Oh, even in prayer that voice I knew I 
 Each faltering word — each mournful tone — 
 
 Each pleading cadence, half suppress' d — 
 Such music had its like alone 
 
 On lips that stole it her breast 1 
 And ere the orison was done 
 I loved the mother as the son 1 
 
 And now, the marriage vows to hear. 
 
 The nun unveil'd her brow= — 
 When, sudden, to my startled ear. 
 There crept a whisper, hoarse like fear, 
 
 '* De Brevern ! is it thou /" 
 The priest let fall the golden ring, 
 
 The bridegroom stood aghast. 
 While, like some weird and frantic thing, 
 
 The nun was muttering fast; 
 And as, in dread, I nearer drew, 
 §he thrast her arms the lattice through, 
 
116 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 Arid held me to her straining view — 
 
 But suddenly begun 
 To steal upon her brain a light 
 That stagger' d soul, and sense, and sight, 
 And, with a mouth all ashy white. 
 
 She shriek' d, ^^ It is his son ! 
 The bridegroom is thy blood — thy brother! 
 Rodolph de Brevern wronged his mother /" 
 
 And, as that doom of love was heard, 
 My sister sunk — and died — without a sign or word I 
 
 I shed no tear for her. She died 
 
 With her last sunshine in her eyes. 
 Earth held for her no joy beside 
 
 The hope just shatter'd — and she lies 
 In a green nook of yonder dell ; 
 
 And near her, in a newer bed, 
 Her lover — brother — sleeps as well ! 
 
 Peace to the broken-hearted dead I 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS 17*7 
 
 LORD IVON AND HIS DAUGHTER. 
 
 " Dost thou despise 
 A love like this ? A lady slaould not scorn 
 One soul that loves her, howc'er lowly it be. 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 How beautiful it is I Come here, my daughter I 
 Is't not a face of most bewildering brightness ? 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 The features are all fair, sir, but so cold — 
 I could not love such beauty ! 
 
 LOBD IVON. 
 
 Yet, e'en so 
 Look'd thy lost mother, Isidore I Her brow 
 Lofty like this — her lips thus delicate. 
 Yet icy cold in their slight vermeil threads — 
 Her neck thus queenly, and the sweeping curve 
 Thus matchless, from the small and " pearl round ear 
 To the o'er-polish'd shoulder. Never swan 
 Dream' d on tne water with a grace so calm 1 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 And was she proud, sir ? 
 
1^8 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 Or I had not loved her. 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 Then runs my lesson wrong. I ever read 
 Pride was unlovely. 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 Dost thou prate already 
 Of books, my Httle one ? Nay, then, 'tis time 
 That a sad tale were told thee. Is thy bird 
 Fed for the day ? Canst thou forget the rem 
 Of thy beloved Arabian for an hour, 
 And, the first time in all thy sunny hfe, 
 Take sadness to thy heart ? Wilt listen, sweet? 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 Hang I not ever on thy hps, dear father ? 
 
 LORD IVON, 
 
 As thou didst enter, I was musing here 
 Upon this picture. 'Tis the face of one 
 I never knew ; but, for its glorious pride, 
 I bought it of the painter. There has hunp 
 Ever the cunning curse upon my soul 
 To love this look in woman. Not the flower 
 Of all Arcadia, in the Age of Gold, 
 Looked she a shepherdess, would be to me 
 More than the birds are. As th' astrologer 
 Worships the half-seen star that in its sphere 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 179 
 
 Dreams not of him, and tramples on the lily 
 That flings, unask'd, its fragrance in his way, 
 Yet both (as are the high- born and the low) 
 Wrought of the same fine Hand — so, daringly, 
 Flew my boy-hopes beyond me. You are here 
 In a brave palace, Isidore ! The gem 
 That sparkles in your hair imprisons light 
 Drunk in the flaming Orient ; and gold 
 Waits on the bidding of those girUsh lips 
 In measure that Aladdin never knew. 
 Yet was I — lowly born ! 
 
 Lord Ivon I 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 Ay, 
 
 You wonder ; but I tell you that the lord 
 Of this tall palace was a peasant's child ! 
 And, looking sometimes on his fair domain, 
 Thy sire bethinks him of a sickly boy. 
 Nursed by his mother on a mountain side, 
 His only wealth a book of poetry, 
 With which he daily crept into the sun, 
 To cheat sharp pains with the bewildering dream 
 Of beauty he had only read of there. 
 
 Have you the volume still, sir ? 
 15 
 
180 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 'Twas the gift 
 Of a poor scholar wandering in the hills, 
 Who pitied my sick idleness. I fed 
 My inmost soul upon the witching rhyme — 
 A silly tale of a low minstrel boy, 
 Who broke his heart in singing at a bridal. 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 Loved he the lady, sir ? 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 So ran the tale. 
 How well I do remember it ! 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 Alasl 
 Poor youth I 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 I never thought to pity him. 
 The bride was a duke's sister ; and I mused 
 Upon the wonder of his daring love, 
 Till my heart changed within me, I became 
 Restless and sad ; and in my sleep I saw 
 Beautiful dames all scornfully go by ; 
 And one o'er-weary morn I crept away 
 Into the glen, and, flung upon a rock, 
 Over a torrent whose swift, giddy waters 
 Fill'd me with energy, I swore my soul 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 181 
 
 To better that false vision, if there were 
 Manhood or fire within my wretched frame. 
 I turn'd me homeward with the sunset hour, 
 Changed — for the thought had conquer' d even disease; 
 And my poor mother check' d her busy wheel 
 To wonder at the step with which I came. 
 
 Oh, heavens ! that soft and dewy April eve, 
 When, in a mmstrel's garb, but with a heart 
 As lofty as the marble shafts uprear'd 
 Beneath the stately portico, I stood 
 At this same palace door ! 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 Our own ! and you 
 A minstrel boy ! 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 Yes — I had wander'd far 
 Since I shook oflF my sickness in the hills, 
 And, with some cunning on the lute, had learn'd 
 A subtler lesson than humility 
 In the quick school of want. A menial stood 
 By the Egyptian sphinx ; and when I came 
 And pray'd to smg beneath the balcony 
 A song of love for a fair lady's ear. 
 He insolently bade me to begone. 
 Listening not, I swept my fingers o'er 
 The strings in prelude, when the base-born slave 
 Struck me ! 
 
182 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 Impossible I 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 I dash'd mj lute 
 Into his face, and o'er the threshold flew ; 
 And threa'^'ing rapidly the lofty rooms, 
 Sought vainly for his master. Suddenly 
 A wing rush'd o'er me, and a radiant girl, 
 Young as myself, but fairer than the dream 
 Of my most wild imagining, sprang forth, 
 Chasing a dove, that 'wilder' d with pursuit, 
 Dropp'd breathless on my bosom. 
 
 Was't so indeed ? 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 Nay, dear father ! 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 I thank'd my blessed star ! 
 And, as the fair, transcendent creature stood 
 Silent with wonder, I resign'd the bird 
 To her white hands : and, with a rapid thought^ 
 And lips already eloquent of love, 
 Turn'd the strange chance to a simihtude 
 Of my own story. Her slight, haughty lip 
 Curl'd at the warm recital of my wrong, 
 And on the ivory oval of her cheek 
 The rose flush'd outward with a deeper red ; 
 And from that hour the minstrel was at home, 
 
Willis's POEMS. 'i^3 
 
 And horse and hound were his, and none might cross 
 The minion of the noble Lady Clare. 
 Art weary of my taJe ? 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 Dear father 1 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 WeUI 
 A summer, and a winter, and a spring, 
 Went over me Uke brief and noteless hours. 
 Forever at the side of one who grew 
 With every morn more beautiful ; the slave, 
 Willing and quick, of every idle whim ; 
 Singing for no one's bidding but her own, 
 And then a song from my own passionate heart, 
 Sung with a lip of fire, but ever named 
 As an old rhyme that I had chanced to hear ; 
 Riding beside her, sleeping at her door. 
 Doing her maddest bidding at the risk 
 Of life — what marvel if at last I grew 
 Presamptuous ? 
 
 A messenger one morn 
 Spurr'd through the gate — "A revel at the court! 
 And many minstrels, come from many lands, 
 Will try their harps in presence of the king ; 
 And 'tis the royal pleasure that my lord 
 Come with the young and lovely Lady Clare, 
 15* 
 
84 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 Robed as the queen of Faery, who shall crown 
 The victor with his bays." 
 
 Pass over all 
 To that bewildering day. She sat enthroned 
 Amid the court ; and never twilight star 
 Sprang with such sweet surprise upon the eye, 
 As she with her rare beauty on the gaze 
 Of the gay multitude. The minstrels changed 
 Their studied songs, and chose her for a theme ; 
 And ever at the pause all eyes upturn'd 
 And fed upon her loveliness. 
 
 The last 
 Long lay was ended, and the silent crowd 
 Waited the king's award — when suddenly 
 The sharp strings of a lyre were swept without, 
 And a clear voice claim'd hearing for a bard 
 Belated on his journey. Mask'd, and clad 
 In a long stole, the herald led me in. 
 A thousand eyes were on me : but I saw 
 The new-throned queen, in her high place, alone; 
 And, kneeling at her feet, I press'd my brow 
 Upon her footstool, till the images 
 Of my past hours rush'd thick upon my bram ; 
 Then, rising hastily, I struck my lyre ; 
 And, in a story woven of my own, 
 I so did paint her in her loveliness — 
 Pouring my heart all out upon the lines 
 I knew too faithfully, and lavishing 
 
WILLISS POEMS. iHb 
 
 The hoarded fire of a "whole age of love 
 UpoQ each passionate word, that, as I sunk 
 Exhausted at the close, the ravish'd crowd 
 riung gold and flowers on my still quivering lyre ; 
 And the moved monarch in his gladness swore 
 There was no boon beneath his kingly crown 
 Too high for such a minstrel ! 
 
 Did my star 
 Speak in my fainting ear ? Heard I the king ? 
 Or did the audible pulses of my heart 
 Seem to me so articulate ? I rose, 
 And tore my mask away ; and, as the stole 
 Dropp'd from my shoulders, I glanced hurriedly 
 A look upon the face of Lady Clare. 
 It was enough I I saw that she was changed — 
 That a brief hour had chill'd the open child 
 To calculating woman — that she read 
 With cold displeasure my o'er-daring thought ; 
 And on that brow, to me as legible 
 As stars to the rapt Arab, I could trace 
 The scorn that waited on me ! Sick of life, 
 Yet, even then, with a half-rallied hope 
 Prompting my faltering tongue, I blindly knelt, 
 And claim'd the king's fair promise — 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 For the hand 
 Of Lady Clare? 
 
186 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 LORD ITON. 
 
 No, sweet one — for a sword, 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 Tou surely spoke to her ? 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 I saw her face 
 Ko more for years. I went unto the wars ; 
 And when again I sought that palace door, 
 A glory heralded the minstrel boy 
 That monarchs might have envied. 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 Was she there ? 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 Yes — and, God I how beautiful 1 The last, 
 The ripest seal of loveliness, was set 
 Upon her form ; and the all-glorious pride 
 That I had worshipp'd on her girlish lip, 
 When her scared dove fled to me, was matured 
 Into a queenly grace ; and nobleness 
 Was bound like a tiara to her brow. 
 And every motion breathed of it. There lived 
 Nothing on earth so ravishingly fair. 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 And y;u still loved her ? 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 187 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 I had perill'd life 
 In every shape — had battled on the sea. 
 And burnt upon the desert, and outgone 
 Spirits most mad for glory, with this one 
 O'ermastering hope upon me. Honor, fame, 
 Gold, even, were as dust beneath my feet; 
 And war was my disgust, though I had sought 
 Its horrors like a bloodhound — for her praise. 
 My life was drunk up with the love of her. 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 And now she scorn' d you not ? 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 Worse, Isidore ! 
 She pitied me I I did not need a voice 
 To tell my love. She knew her sometime minion — 
 And felt that she should never be adored 
 With such idolatry as his, and sigh'd 
 That hearts so true beat not in palaces — 
 But I was poor, with all my bright renown, 
 And lowly born ; and she — the Lady Clare I 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 She could not tell you this ? 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 She brolce my heart 
 
188 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 As kindly as the fisher hooks the worm- 
 Pitying me the while ! 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 And you — 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 Lived on ! 
 But the remembrance irks me, and my throat 
 Chokes with the utterance ! 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 Dear father I 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 Nay- 
 Thanks to sweet Mary Mother, it is past ; 
 And in this world I shall have no more need 
 To speak of it. 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 But there were brighter days 
 In store. My mother and this palace — 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 You outrun 
 My tale, dear Isidore ! But 'tis as well. 
 I would not linger on it. 
 
 Twenty years 
 From this heart-broken hour, I stood again, 
 An old man and a stranger, at the door 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 189 
 
 Jf this same palace. I had been a slave 
 
 For gold that time ! My star had wrought with me i 
 
 And I was richer than the wizard king 
 
 Throned in the mines of Ind. I could not look 
 
 On my innumerable gems, the glare 
 
 Pain'd so my sun-struck eyes! My gold was countless 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 And Lady Clare ? 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 I met upon the threshold 
 Her very self — all youth, all loveliness — 
 So like the fresh-kept picture in my brain, 
 That for a moment I forgot all else, 
 And stagger'd back and wept. She pass'd me by 
 With a cold look — • 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 Oh ! not the Lady Clare ! 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 Her daughter, yet herself! But what a change 
 Waited me here ! My thin and grizzled locks 
 Were fairer now than the young minstrel's curls — 
 My sun-burnt visage and contracted eye 
 Than the gay soldier with his gallant mien ! 
 My words were wit, my looks interpreted ; 
 And Lady Clare — I tell you, Lady Clare 
 Lean'd fondly — fondly ! on my wasted arm. 
 
190 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 God I how changed my nature with all this I 
 I, that had been all love and tenderness — 
 The truest and most gentle heart, till now, 
 That ever beat — grew suddenly a devil ! 
 
 1 bought me lands, and titles, and received 
 Men's homage with a smooth hypocrisy ; 
 And — you will scarce believe me, Isidore — 
 
 I suflfer'd them to wile their peerless daughter. 
 The image and the pride of Lady Clare 
 To wed me I 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 Sir ! you did not 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 Ay ! I saw 
 Th' indignant anger when her mother first 
 Broke the repulsive wish, and the degrees 
 Of shuddering reluctance as her mind 
 Admitted the intoxicating tales 
 Of wealth unlimited. And when she look'd 
 On my age-stricken features, and my form, 
 Wasted before its time, and turn'd away 
 To hide from me her tears, her very mother 
 Whisper'd the cursed comfort in her ear 
 That made her what she is I 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 You could not wed her. 
 Knowing all this ! 
 
WILLIS'S P0)5MS. 791 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 I felt that I had lost 
 My life else. I had wrung, for forty years, 
 My frame to its last withers ; I had flung 
 My boyhood's fire away — the energy 
 Of a most sinless youth — the toil, and fre<:, 
 A.nd agony of manhood. I had dared, 
 Fought, suffer' d, slaved — and never for an hour 
 Forgot or swerved from my resolve ; and now — 
 With the delirious draught upon my lips — 
 Dash down the cup ! 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 Yet she had never wrong'd you f 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 Thou'rt pleading for thy mother, my sweet child I 
 And angels hear thee. But, if she was wrong'd, 
 The sin be on the pride that sells its blood 
 Coldly and only for this damning gold. 
 Had I not offer'd youth first ? Came I not, 
 With my hands brimm'd with glory, to buy love— 
 And was I not denied ? 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 Yet, dearest father, 
 They forced her not to wed ? 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 I call'd her back 
 16 
 
192 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 Myself from the church threshold, and, before 
 Her mother and her kinsmen, bade her swear 
 It was her own free choice to marry me. 
 I show'd her my shrunk hand, and bade her think 
 If that was like a bridegroom, and beware 
 - Of perjuring her chaste and spotless soul, 
 ■ If now she loved me not. 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 What said she, sir ? 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 Oh ! they had made her even as themselves ; 
 And her young heart was colder than the slab 
 Unsunn'd beneath Pentelicus. She press'd 
 My wither'd fingers in her dewy clasp. 
 And smiled up in my face, and chid " my lord" 
 For his wild fancies, and led on ! 
 
 And no 
 Misgiving at the altar ? 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 None ! She swore 
 To love and cherish me till death should part us, 
 With a voice clear as mine. 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 And kept it, father I 
 In mercy tell me so ! 
 
WILLIS'S POEMSc 193 
 
 LORD I VON. 
 
 She lives, my daughter I 
 
 Long ere my babe was born, my pride had ebb'd 
 And let my heart down to its better founts 
 Of tenderness. I had no friends — not one ! 
 My love gush'd to my wife. I rack'd my brain 
 To find her a new pleasure every hour — 
 Yet not with me — I fear'd to haunt her eye 1 
 Only at night, when she was slumbering 
 In all her beauty, I would put away 
 The curtains till the pale night-lamp shone on her. 
 And watch her through my tears. 
 
 One night her lips 
 Parted as I gazed on them, and the name 
 Of a young noble, who had been my guest, 
 Stole forth in broken murmurs. I let fall 
 The curtains silently, and left her there 
 To slumber and dream on ; and gliding forth 
 Upon the terrace, knelt to my pale star. 
 And swore, that if it pleased the God of light 
 To let me look upon the unborn child 
 Lying beneath her heart, I would but press 
 One kiss upon its lips, and take away 
 My life — that was a blight upon her years. 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 r was that child ! 
 
3 94 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 Yes — and I heard the cry 
 Of thy small " piping mouth" as 'twere a call 
 From my remembering star. I waited only 
 Thy mother's strength to bear the common shock 
 Of death within the doors. She rose at last, 
 And, oh I so sweetly pale ! And thou, my child \ 
 My heart misgave me as I look'd upon thee ; 
 But he was ever at her side whose name 
 She murmur' d in her sleep ; and, lingering on 
 To drink a httle of thy sweetness more 
 Before I died, I watch'd their stolen love 
 As she had been my daughter, with a pure, 
 Passionless joy that I should leave her soon 
 To love him as she would. I know not how 
 To tell thee more. ***** 
 
 * * * Come, sweet ! she is not worthy 
 Of tears like thine and mine ! 
 
 ***** She fled and lefl me 
 The very night I The poison was prepared — 
 And she had been a widow with the morn 
 Rich as Golconda ! As the midnight chimed. 
 My star rose. Gazing on its mounting orb, 
 I raised the chalice — ^but a weakness came 
 Over my heart ; and, taking up the lamp, 
 I glided to her chamber, and removed 
 The curtains for a last, a parting look 
 Upon my child. * * * * ♦ 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. ] 95 
 
 * * * * Had she but taken thee, 
 I could have felt she had a mother's heart, 
 And drain'd tlie chalice still. I could not leave 
 My babe alone in such a heartless world ! 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 Thank God ! Thank God ! 
 
 TO ERMENGARDE. 
 
 I KNOW not if the sunshine waste — 
 
 The world is dark since thou art gone I 
 The hours are, oh 1 so leaden-paced I 
 
 The birds sing, and the stars float on, 
 But sing not well, and look not fair — 
 A weight is in the summer air, 
 
 And sadness in the sight of flowers ; 
 And if I go where others smile, 
 
 Their love but makes me think of ours, 
 And heavier gets my heart the while. 
 Like one upon a desert isle, 
 
 I languish of the weary hours ; 
 I never thought a life could be 
 St flung upon one hope, as mine, dear love, on thee I 
 
 I sit and watch the summer sky. 
 
 There comes a cloud through heaven alone; 
 A thousand stars are shining nigh — 
 16* 
 
196 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 It feels no light, but darkles on I 
 Yet now it nears the lovelier moon ; 
 
 And, flushing through its fringe of snow, 
 There steals a rosier dye, and soon 
 
 Its bosom is one fiery glow 1 
 The Queen of Light within it lies ! 
 
 Yet mark how lovers meet to part I 
 The cloud already onward flies. 
 
 And shadows sink into its heart, 
 And (dost thou see them were thou art 7) 
 
 Fade fast, fade all those glorious dyes ! 
 Its light, like mine, is seen no more. 
 And, like my own, its heart seems darker than before 1 
 
 Where press this hour those fairy feet ? 
 
 Where look this hour those eyes of blue ? 
 What music in thine ear is sweet ? 
 
 What odor breathes thy lattice through ? 
 What word is on thy lip ? what tone — 
 What look — replying to thine own ? 
 Thy steps along the Danube stray — 
 
 Alas ! it seeks an orient sea ! 
 Thou would not seem so far away 
 
 Flow'd but its waters back to me ! 
 I bless the slowly coming moon 
 
 Because its eye look'd late in thine ! 
 I envy the west wind of June 
 
 Whose wings will bear it up the Rhine ; 
 The flower I press upon my brow 
 Were sweeter if its like perfumed thy chamber now! 
 
Willis's poems. 197 
 
 FRAGMENT OF A POEM, 
 
 WRITTEN FOU A MOTHER, AFTKR TUE DEATH OF A BELOVED AND 
 BEAUTIFUL DAUGUTEB. 
 
 That she we loved is with us, here, no more, 
 We tearfully and mournfully may say — 
 But not so mournfully that she is gone. 
 Like one uphfted in a march by night, 
 And borne on, to the morning, 'tis to her 
 But au unwearied minute to the dawn ; 
 While we, with torn feet, on the darkling way, 
 Follow to that same home, where she's at rest 
 Waiting to give us welcome. Oh sad mother, 
 The voice, within the soft lips where your love 
 Look'd for its music, is all hush'd, we know I 
 The roses that it parted have grown pale. 
 But the same voice, with its accustom'd tones, 
 Lends to her sweet thoughts utterance where she is; 
 And oh, while, in the softer air of Heaven, 
 It unlearns only its complaining — say ! — 
 Is't well to wish, that, even to the ears 
 That cannot sleep with aching for its music, 
 'Twere audible acrain? * * ♦ 
 
198 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 BEAUTY AFTER DEATH. 
 
 " I sleep, but my heart waketh.'" 
 
 * * * Death's blight upon the brow — 
 His iron hand's cold impress on the hp — 
 Are not ahke relentless unto all. 
 Not always when made ready for the grave, 
 Are the beloved ones beautiful no more. 
 Nor all alike to the bright throng who wait 
 To give the welcome at the gate of heaven, 
 Seem the pale comers from this world away. 
 And they, — the loveliest to the eyes that mourn, — 
 They, of the blest throng of the sin forgiven, 
 Who fairest seem to angels — seldom they 
 Were of the living who are called most fair — 
 Seldom the young, the gifted, or the strong. 
 But they whom pity for the poor has kept 
 Tender of heart — these, with their parting breath, 
 Put on the saintly beauty of the blest 1 
 For, oh how well that miracle is known 
 To those who oftenest look upon the dead : — 
 That, when life's changing features first are still — 
 When first, with death's transparent calm, we see 
 Through the far depths what pearl was hidden there — 
 Then, o'er the features of the blest ones " known 
 For their good works," like Dorcas — those whose " alms 
 Are ill remembrance before God," like his 
 To whom the "angel in bright clothing" came, 
 Cornelius the centurion — there beams 
 
AVILLIS'S POEMS. 193 
 
 Light, from the warm heart that was shrined within — 
 Light from the trembling of the pitying tear, 
 Th' undying lamp lit for the sad and lone ! 
 And by that light — a smile upon the lips, 
 Unquenched by life's last agony — we know 
 That such are they who are beloved of God : — 
 Made fairer even in Death's icy sleep, 
 By the unwearied "waking of the heart" 
 Which smiles as they go beautiful to Heaven. 
 
 WAKING-DREAM IN SICKNESS. 
 
 (tale college, 1827.) 
 
 The night creeps wearily. I lit my lamp 
 
 To hide the brightness of that morning star 
 
 That mocks me with a sleeplessness like mine — 
 
 Coldly and glitteriogly apart and lone I 
 
 How unlike life it is — this sickness-waking I 
 
 Conscious of life's enfeebled link no more 
 
 The soul feels death-released ; and, as the star 
 
 Wakes not the colors of earth's slumbering flowers. 
 
 Nor warms the darkness of the mountain brow 
 
 From which so pathlessly it soars away. 
 
 So, with strange lift, unnaturally bright. 
 
 The sick man's thought soars tracklessly and far : 
 
 The pale cheek on the pillow, and the pulse 
 
 Of the sad silent heart, made deathlier only 
 
 By thought in which their faintness has no share ! 
 
200 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 UNSEEN SPIRITS. 
 
 The shadows lay along Broadway, 
 'Twas near the twilight-tide — 
 
 And slowly there a lady fair 
 Was walking in her pride. 
 
 Alone walk'd she ; but, viewlessly, 
 Walk'd spirits at her side. 
 
 Peace charm' d the street beneath her feet, 
 
 And Honor charm'd the air ; 
 And all astir look'd kind on her, 
 
 And call'd her good as fair — 
 For all God ever gave to her. 
 
 She kept with chary care. 
 
 She kept with care her beauties rare 
 From lovers warm and true — 
 
 For her heart was cold to all but gold. 
 And the rich came not to woo — 
 
 But honor'd well are charms to sell 
 If priests the selling do. 
 
 Now walking there was one more fair — 
 
 A slight girl, lily-pale ; 
 And she had unseen company 
 
 To make the spirit quail — 
 'Twixt Want and Scorn she walk'd forlorn, 
 
 And nothing; could avail. 
 
Willis's poems. 201 
 
 No mercy nr»iv can clear her brow 
 
 For this world'? peace to pray ; 
 For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, 
 
 Her woman's heart gave way ! — 
 But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven 
 
 By man is cursed alway ! 
 
 TO CHARLES ROUX, OF SWITZERb^VND. 
 
 (written IK HIS ALBUM WHEN HE WAS THE AUTHOR'S TEACHER IN 
 MODERN LANGUAGES, TALK COLLEGE, 1827.) 
 
 I WOULD not leave that land, if I were thou - 
 That glorious land of mountain and of flood. 
 
 Whereon is graven GrOD. 
 As if its hills were chosen for Earth's brow, 
 And its loud torrents gave the words he spoke, 
 
 Leaping from rock to rock. 
 
 I would not leave it — for its children gave 
 Their blood hke water, for a word, " be free !'" 
 
 Their last breath, " Liberty 1" 
 Till Switzerland was made a mighty grave — 
 A land where heroes like a harvest fell — 
 
 The land of William Tell. 
 
 I would not leave it : — yet the holy wing 
 Of freedom shadoweth this land, as tliine \ 
 
 And when I call it " mine," 
 I make myself greater than a king. 
 We welcome freemen — and we welcome thee- 
 
 Dwell with us, and be free ! 
 
202 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 THE CONFESSIONAL. 
 
 " When thou hast met with careless hearts and cold, 
 Hearts that young love may touch, but never hold- 
 Not changeless, as the loved and left of old — 
 Eeniember me — remember me — 
 I passionately pray of thee !" 
 
 Lady E. S. "Wobtlkt. 
 
 I THOUGHT of thee — I thought of thee, 
 
 On ocean many a weary night — 
 When heaved the long and sullen sea, 
 
 With only waves and stars in sight. 
 We stole along by isles of balm, 
 
 We furl'd before the coming gale. 
 We slept amid the breathless calm, 
 
 We flew beneath the straining sail — 
 But thou wert lost for years to me, 
 And, day and night, I thought of thee ! 
 
 I thought of thee — I thought of thee, 
 
 In France — amid the gay saloon, 
 Where eyes as dark as eyes may be 
 
 Are many as the leaves in June — 
 Where life is love, and even the air 
 
 Is pregnant with impassion'd thought, 
 And song and dance and music are 
 
 With one warm meaning only fraught — 
 My half-snared heart broke lightly free, 
 And, with a blush, I thou^fht of thee ! 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 208 
 
 I thought of thee — I thought of thee, 
 
 In Florence, — where the fiery hearts 
 Of Italy are breathed away 
 
 In wonders of the deathless arts ; 
 Where stra/s the Contadina down 
 
 Val d'Arno with a song of old ; 
 Where cUrae and woman seldom frown, 
 
 And life runs over sands of gold ; 
 I stray'd to lone Fiesole 
 On many an eve, and thought of thee. 
 
 I thought of thee — I thought of thee, 
 
 In Rome, — when on the Palatine 
 Night left the Caesars' palace free 
 
 To Time's forgetful foot and mine ; 
 Or, on the Coliseum's wall. 
 
 When moonlight touch'd the ivied stone, 
 Reclining, with a thought of all 
 
 That o'er this scene has come and gone — 
 The shades of Rome would start and flee 
 Unconsciously — I thought of thee. 
 
 I thought of thee — I thought of thee. 
 
 In Vallombrosa's holy shade, 
 Where nobles born the friars be, 
 
 By life's rude changes humbler made. 
 Here Milton framed his Paradise ; 
 
 I slept within his very cell ; 
 And, as I closed my weary eyes, 
 
 I thought the cowl would fit mo well — 
 17 
 
204 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 The cloisters breathed, it seem'd to me, 
 Of heart's-ease — but I thought of thee. 
 
 I thought of thee — I thought of thee, 
 
 In Venice, — on a night in June ; 
 When, through the city of the sea, 
 
 Like dust of silver slept the moon. 
 Slow turn'd his oar the gondolier, 
 
 And, as the black barks glided by, 
 The water to my leaning ear 
 
 Bore back the lover's passing sigh — 
 It was no place alone to be — 
 I thought of thee — I thought of thee, 
 
 I thought of thee — I thought of thee. 
 
 In the Ionian isles — when straying 
 With wise Ulysses by the sea — 
 
 Old Homer's songs around me playing ; 
 Or, watching the bewitch'd caique, 
 
 That o'er the star-lit waters flew, 
 I listen'd to the helmsman Greek, 
 
 Who sung the song that Sappho knew— 
 The poet's spell, the bark, the sea, 
 AU vanish' d — as I thought of thee. 
 
 I thought of thee — I thought of thee. 
 In Greece — when rose the Parthenon 
 
 Majestic o'er the Egean sea, 
 
 And heroes with it, one by one; 
 
 When, in the grove of Academe, 
 Where Lais and Leontium *trav*d 
 
WILLIS'S POEMb. 206 
 
 Discussing Plato's mystic theme, 
 
 I lay at nooutide in the shade — 
 The Egean wind, the whispering tree, 
 Had voices — and I thought of thee. 
 
 I thought of thee — I thought of thee, 
 
 In Asia — on the Dardanelles ; 
 Where swiftly as the waters flee, 
 
 Each wave some sweet old story tells ; 
 And, seated by the marble tank 
 
 Which sleeps by IHum's ruins old, 
 (The fount where peerless Helen drank. 
 
 And Venus laved her locks of gold,)* 
 I thrill'd such classic haunts to see, 
 Yet even here — I thought of thee 
 
 I thought of thee — I thought of thee, 
 
 Where glide the Bosphor's lovely waters, 
 All palace-lined from sea to sea ; 
 
 And ever on its shores the daughters 
 Of the delicious East are seen, 
 
 Printing the brink with slipper'd feet. 
 And oh, the snowy folds between. 
 
 What eyes of heaven your glances meet I 
 Peris of light no fairer be — 
 Yet — in Stamboul — I thought of thee. 
 
 I've thought of thee — I've thought of thee. 
 Through change that teaches to forget ; 
 
 • In the Scamander, — before comtendin!: for the prize of beauty on 
 Mount Ida. Its head waters fill a beautiful tank near tlie walls of Troy 
 
206 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 Thy face looks up from every sea, 
 In every star thine eyes are set, 
 
 Though roving beneath Orient skies, 
 Whose golden beauty breathes of rest, 
 
 I envy every bird that flies 
 
 Into the far and clouded West : 
 
 I think of thee — I think of thee ! 
 
 Oh, dearest 1 hast thou thought of me ? 
 
 FLORENCE GRAY. 
 
 I WAS in Greece. It was the hour of noon, 
 
 And the Egean wind had dropp'd asleep 
 
 Upon Hymettus, and the thymy isles 
 
 Of Salamis and Egina lay hung 
 
 Like clouds upon the bright and breathless sea. 
 
 I had climb'd up the Acropolis at morn, 
 
 And hours had fled, as time will in a dream. 
 
 Amidst its deathless ruins — for the air 
 
 Is full of spirits in these mighty fanes, 
 
 And they walk with you ! As it sultrier grew, 
 
 I laid me down within a shadow deep 
 
 Of a tall column of the Parthenon, 
 
 And, in an absent idleness of thought, 
 
 I scrawl'd upon the smooth and marble base. 
 
 Tell me, memory, what wrote I there ? 
 
 The name of a sweet child I knew at Rome ! 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 207 
 
 I was in Asia. 'Twas a peerless night 
 
 Upon the plains of Sardis, and the moon, 
 
 Touching my ejeUds through the wind-stirr'd tent, 
 
 Had witch'd me from my slumber. I arose 
 
 And silently stole forth, and by the brink 
 
 Of " gold Pactolus," where his waters bathe 
 
 The bases of Cybele's columns fair, 
 
 I paced away the hours. In wakeful mood 
 
 I mused upon the storied past awhile, 
 
 Watching the moon, that, with the same mild eye, 
 
 Had look'd upon the mighty Lydian kings 
 
 Sleeping around me — Croesus, who had heap'd 
 
 Within that mouldering portico his gold. 
 
 And Gyges, buried with his viewless ring 
 
 Beneath yon swelling tumulus — and then 
 
 I loiter'd up the valley to a small 
 
 And humbler ruin, where the undefiled* 
 
 Of the Apocalypse their garments kept 
 
 Spotless ; and crossing with a conscious awe 
 
 The broken threshold, to my spirit's eye 
 
 It seem'd as if, amid the moonlight, stood 
 
 " The angel of the church of Sardis" still I 
 
 And I again pass'd onward, and as dawn 
 
 Paled the bright morning-star, I laid me down 
 
 Weary and sad beside the river's brink, 
 
 And 'twixt the moonlight and the rosy morn, 
 
 Wrote with my finger in the " golden sands.'' 
 
 * " Thou hast a few names even in Sardis which have not defiled 
 their garments: and they shall walk with mo in white: for they ai« 
 worthv.'' — Revelation iii. 4. 
 
208 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 Tell me, memory, what wrote I there I 
 J7ie name of the sweet child I knew at Rome I 
 
 The dust is old upon my " sandal-shoon," 
 And still I am a pilgrim ; I have roved 
 From wild America to Bosphor's waters, 
 And worshipp'd at innumerable shrines 
 Of beauty ; and the painter's art, to me, 
 And sculpture, speak as with a living tongue, 
 And of dead kingdoms I recall the soul, 
 Sitting amid their ruins. I have stored 
 My memory with thoughts that can allay 
 Fever and sadness, and when life gets dim, 
 And I am overladen in my years, 
 Minister to me. But when wearily 
 The mind gives over toihng, and with eyes 
 Open but seeing not, and senses all 
 Lying awake within their chambers dim, 
 Thought settles like a fountain, still and clear- 
 Far in its sleeping depths, as 'twere a gem, 
 Tell me, O memory, what shines so fair ? 
 The face of the sweet child I knew at Rome ! 
 
 THE PITY OP THE PARK FOUNTALY. 
 
 'TwAS a summery day in the last of May — 
 
 Pleasant in sun or shade ; 
 And the hours went by, as the poets say, 
 Fragrant and fair in their flowery way ; 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 209 
 
 And a hearse crept slowly through Broadway — 
 And the Fountain gaily play'd. 
 
 The Fountain play'd right merrily, 
 And the world look'd bright and gay ; 
 
 And a youth went by, with a restless eye, 
 
 Whose heart was sick and whose brain was dry ; 
 
 And he pray'd to God that he might die — 
 And the Fountain play'd away. 
 
 Uprose the spray like a diamond throne, 
 
 And the drops like music rang — 
 And of those who marveU'd how it shone, 
 Was a proud man, left, in his shame, alone ; 
 And he shut his teeth with a smother'd groan — 
 
 And the Fountam sweetly sang. 
 
 And a rainbow spann'd it changefully, 
 
 Like a bright ring broke in twain ; 
 And the pale, fair girl, who stopp'd to see, 
 Was sick with the pangs of poverty — 
 And from hunger to guilt she chose to flee 
 
 As the rainbow smiled again. 
 
 With as fair a ray, on another day. 
 
 The morning will have shone ; 
 And as Httle mark'd, in bright Broadway, 
 A hearse will glide amid busy and gay, 
 And the bard who sings will have pass'd away-— 
 
 And the Fountain will play on I 
 
210 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 "CHAMBER SCENE." 
 
 [an exquisite picture in the studio of a young AKTIST at ROME.] 
 
 She rose from her untroubled sleep, 
 
 And put away her soft brown hair, 
 And, in a tone as low and deep 
 
 As love's first whisper, breathed a prayer — 
 Her snow-white hands together press'd, 
 
 Her blue eyes shelter' d in the Ud, 
 The folded linen on her breast 
 
 Just swelling with the charms it hid ; 
 And from her long and flowing dress 
 
 Escaped a bare and slender foot, 
 Whose shape upon the earth did press 
 
 Like a new snow-flake, white and " mute;" 
 And there, from slumber, pure and warm, 
 
 Like a young spirit fresh from heaven. 
 The bow'd her slight and graceful form. 
 
 And humbly pray'd to be forgiven. 
 
 Oh God ! if souls unsoil'd as these 
 
 Need daily mercy from thy throne — 
 If she upon her bended knees — 
 
 Our lovehest and our purest one — 
 She, with a face so clear and bright 
 We deem her some stray child of light — 
 
 If she, with those soft eyes in tears, 
 
 Day after day in her first years. 
 Must kneel and pray for grace from thee — 
 What far, far deeper need have we ? 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 211 
 
 flow hardly, if she win not heaven, 
 Will our wild errors be forgiven ! 
 
 TO A STOLEN RING. 
 
 Oh for thy history now ! Hadst thou a tongue 
 
 To whisper of thy secrets, I could lay 
 
 Upon thy jewell'd tracery mine ear. 
 
 And dream myself in heaven. Thou hast been worn 
 
 In that fair creature's pride, and thou has felt 
 
 The bounding of the haughtiest blood that e'er 
 
 Sprang from the heart of woman ; and thy gold 
 
 Has lain upon her forehead in the hour 
 
 Of sadness, when the weary thoughts came fast, 
 
 And life was but a bitterness with all 
 
 Its vividness and beauty. She has gazed 
 
 In her fair girlhood on thy snowy pearls, 
 
 And mused away the hours, and she has bent 
 
 On thee the downcast radiance of her eye 
 
 When a deep tone was eloquent in her ear, 
 
 And thou hast lain upon her cheek, and pressed 
 
 Back on her heart its beatings, and put by 
 
 From her vein'd temples the luxuriant curls; 
 
 And in her peaceful sleep, when she has lain 
 
 In her unconscious beauty, and the dreams 
 
 Of her high heart came goldenly and soft, 
 
 Thou hast been there unchidden, and hast felt 
 
 The swelling of the clear transparent veins 
 
 As the rich blood rush'd through them, warm and fast 
 
212 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 I am impatient as I gaze on thee, 
 Thou inarticulate jewel ! Thou hast heard 
 With thy dull ear such music ! — the low tone 
 Of a young sister's tenderness, when night 
 Hath folded them together like one flower — 
 The sudden snatch of a remember'd song 
 Warbled capriciously — the careless word 
 Lightly betraying the inaudible thought 
 Working within the heart ; and, more than all, 
 Thou hast been lifted when the fervent prayer 
 For a loved mother, or the sleeping one 
 Lying beside her, trembled on her lip, 
 And the warm tear that from her eye stole out 
 As the soft lash fell over it, has lain 
 Amid thy shining jewels like a star. 
 
 TO HER WHO HAS HOPES FOR ME. 
 
 Oh stem, yet lovely monitress ! 
 
 Thine eye should be of colder hue, 
 And on thy neck a paler tress 
 
 Should toy among those veins of blue 1 
 
 For thou art to thy mission true — 
 An angel clad in human guise — 
 But sinners sometimes have such eyes. 
 
 And braid for love such tresses too ; 
 And, while thou talk'st to me of heaven, 
 I sigh that thou hast not a sin to be forgiven ! 
 
WILLIS S POEMS. 213 
 
 Night comes, with love upon the breeze, 
 And the calm clock strikes, stilly, '' ten." 
 I start to hear it beat, for then 
 
 I know that thou art on thy knees — 
 And, at that hour, where'er thou be, 
 Ascends to heaven a prayer for me 1 
 My heart drops to its bended knee — 
 
 The mirth upon my hp is dumb — 
 
 Yet, as a thought of heaven would come, 
 There glides before it, one of thee — 
 
 Thou, in thy white dress, kneeling there ! — 
 1 fear I could leave heaven to see thee at thy prayer ! 
 
 I follow up the sacred aisle. 
 
 Thy light step on the Sabbath-day, 
 And — as perhaps thou pray'st the while — 
 
 My light thoughts pass away ! 
 As swells in air the holy hymn. 
 My breath comes quick, my eyes are dim, 
 
 And through my tears I pray ! 
 I do not think my heart is stone — 
 Bat, while for heaven it beats alone — 
 
 In heaven would willing stay — 
 One rustle of thy snow-white gown 
 
 Sends all my thoughts astray ! 
 The preaching dies upon my ear — 
 What " is the better world" when thy dark eyes are herel 
 
 Yet pray ! my years have been but few — 
 And many a wile the tempter weaves, 
 
214 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 And many a saint the sinner grieves 
 
 Ere Mercy brings him through I 
 But oh, when Mercy sits serene 
 
 And strives to bend to me, 
 Pray, that the cloud which comes between 
 
 May less resemble thee ! 
 The world that would my soul beguile 
 Tints all its roses with thy smile ! 
 
 In heaven 'twere well to be ! 
 But, — to desire that blessed shore — 
 Oh lady ! thy dark eyes must first have gone before ! 
 
 THE DEATH OP HARRISON. 
 
 What ! soar'd the old eagle to die at the sun ! 
 Lies he stiff with spread wings at the goal he had v/on ' 
 Are there spirits more blest than the " Planet of Even," 
 Who mount to their zenith, then melt into Heaven — 
 No waning of fire, no quenching of ray, 
 But rising, still rising, when passing away ? 
 Farewell, gallant eagle ! thou'rt buried in light! 
 God-speed into Heaven, lost star of our night i 
 
 Death ! Death in the White House ! Ah, never betbr 
 Trod his skeleton foot on the President's floor 1 
 He is look'd for in hovel, and dreaded in hall — 
 The king in his closet keeps hatchment and pall-^ 
 
WILLIS S POEMS 215 
 
 The youth in his birth-place, the old man at home, 
 Make clean from the door-stone the path to the tomb ; — 
 But the lord of this mansion was cradled not here — 
 In a churchyard far-off stands his beckoning bier ! 
 He is here as the wave-crest heaves flashing on higli— 
 As the arrow is stopp'd by its prize in the sky — 
 The arrow to earth, and the foam to the shore — 
 Death finds them when swiftness and sparkle are o'er — 
 But Harrison's death fills the climax of story — 
 He went with his old stride — from glory to glory ! 
 
 Lay his sword on his breast ! There's no spot on its blade 
 
 In whose cankering breath his bright laurels will fade I 
 
 'Twas the first to lead on at humanity's call — 
 
 It was stay'd with sweet mercy when "glory" was all I 
 
 As calm in the council as gallant in war, 
 
 He fought for its coontry, and not its "hurrah !'' 
 
 In the path of the hero with pity he trod — 
 
 Let him pass — with his sworo^to the presence of God ! 
 
 What more ? Shall we on with his ashes ? Tot, stay ! 
 
 He hath ruled the wide realm of a king in his day ! 
 
 At his word, like a monarch's, went treasure and land — 
 
 The bright gold of thousands has pass'd through his hand 
 
 Is there nothing to show of his glittering hoard ? 
 
 No jewel to deck the rude hilt of his sword — 
 
 No trappings — no horses ? — what had he, but now ? 
 
 On ! — on with his ashes ! — he left but nis plough ! 
 
 Follow now, as ye list 1 The first mourner to-day 
 Is the nation — whose father is taken away ! 
 18 
 
216 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 Wife, children, and neighbor, may moan on his knell — 
 He was *' lover and friend" to his country, as well ! 
 For the stars on our banner, grown suddenly dim. 
 Let us weep, in our darkness — but weep not for him ! 
 Not for him — who, departing, leaves millions in tears ! 
 Not for him — who has died full of honor and years ! 
 Not for him — who ascended Fame's ladder so high 
 From the round at the top he has stepp'd to the sky ! 
 
 <<SHE WAS NOT THERE." 
 
 " The bird, 
 Let loose, to his far nest will flee, 
 
 And love, though breathed but on a word, 
 Will find thee, over land and sea" 
 
 'Tis midnight deep — I came but now 
 
 From the close air of lighted halls ; 
 And while I hold my aching brow 
 
 I gaze upon my dim- lit walls; 
 And, feeling here that I am free 
 
 To wear the look that suits my mood, 
 And let my thoughts flow back to thee, 
 
 I bless my tranquil solitude, 
 And bidding all thoughts else begone, 
 I muse upon thy love alone. 
 Yet was the music sweet to-night, 
 
 And fragrant odors fiU'd the air, 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 2 J 7 
 
 And flowers were drooping in the light^ 
 And lovely women wander' d there ; 
 
 And fruits and wines with lavish waste 
 Were on the marble tables piled, 
 
 And all that tempts the eye and taste, 
 And sets the haggard pulses wild, 
 
 And wins from care, and deadens sadness, 
 
 Were there — but yet I felt no gladness. 
 
 I thought of thee — I thought of thee — 
 
 Each cunning change the music play'd, 
 Each fragrant breath that stole to me. 
 
 My wandering thought more truant made. 
 The lovely women pass'd me by, 
 
 The wit fell pointless on mine ear, 
 I look'd on all with vacant eye. 
 
 I did not see — I did not hear ! 
 The skill'd musician's master-tone 
 
 Was sweet — thy voice was sweeter far ! 
 They were soft eyes the lamps shone on — 
 
 The eyes I worship gentler are I 
 The halls were broad, the mirrors tall, 
 
 With silver lamps and costly wine — 
 I only thought how poor was all 
 
 To one low tone from lips like thine — 
 I only felt how well forgot 
 Were all the stars look on — and thy sweet eyes do not/ 
 
218 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 FAIL ME NOT THOXJI 
 
 "Oh, by that little word 
 How many thoughts are stirr'd! — 
 The last, the last, the last!" 
 
 The star may but a meteor be, 
 
 That breaks upon the stormy night ; 
 And I may err, believing thee 
 
 A spark of heaven's own changeless light ! 
 But if on earth beams aught so fair, 
 
 It seems, of all the lights that shine, 
 Serenest in its truth, 'tis there, 
 
 Burning in those soft eyes of thine. 
 Yet long- watch' d stars from heaven have rush'd, 
 
 And long-loved friends have dropp'd away, 
 And mine — my very heart have crush'd ! 
 
 And I have hoped this many a day. 
 It lived no more for love or pain ! 
 But thou hast stirr'd its depths again, 
 
 And, to its dull, out-wearied ear. 
 Thy voice of melody has crept, 
 
 In tones it cannot choose but hear ; 
 And now I feel it only slept, 
 
 And know, at even thy lightest smile. 
 
 It gather'd fire and strength the while. 
 
 Fail me not thou I This feeling past. 
 My heart would never rouse again. 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 21; 
 
 Thou art the brightest — but the last I 
 And if this trust, this love be vain — 
 
 If thou, all peerless as thou art, 
 
 Be not less fair than true of heart — 
 My loves are o'er ! The sun will shine 
 ■ pon no grave so hush'd as this dark breast of mine. 
 
 SPIRIT- WHISPERS. 
 
 {Spirit-whisper in the poefs ear — mokning.) 
 Wake ! poet, wake ! — the morn has burst 
 
 Through gates of stars and dew, 
 And, wing'd by prayer since evening nursed, 
 Has fled to kiss the steeples first. 
 
 And now stoops low to you ! 
 Oh, poet of the loving eye, 
 For you is dress'd this morning sky ! 
 
 (Second ^p/m/>er— noon.) 
 Oh, poet of the pen enchanted I 
 
 A lady sits beneath a tree ! 
 At last, the flood for which she panted — 
 The wild words for her anguish wanted, 
 
 Have gush'd in song from thee ! 
 Her dark curls sweep her knees to pray :- 
 "God bless the poet far away!" 
 
 {77drd whisper — midnight.) 
 
 King of the heart's deep mysteries I 
 
 Tour words have wings like lightning wove! 
 18* 
 
220 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 This hour, o'er hills and distant seas, 
 They fly like flower-seeds on the breeze, 
 
 And sow the world with love 1 
 King of a realm without a throne, 
 Euled by resistless tears alone ! 
 
 TO M , FROM ABROAD. 
 
 "The desire of the moth for the star — 
 
 Of the night for the morrow — 
 The devotion to something afar 
 
 From the sphere of our sorrow." 
 
 SnKLLEY. 
 
 "L'alma, quel che non ha, sogna e figura." 
 
 METASTAfilO. 
 
 As, gazing on the Pleiades, 
 
 We count each fair and starry one 
 Yet wander from the Mght of these 
 
 To muse upon the Pleiad gone — 
 As, bending o'er fresh-gather' d flowers, 
 
 The rose's most enchanting hue 
 Reminds us but of other hours 
 
 Whose roses were all lovely too — 
 
 So, dearest, when I rove among 
 The bright ones of this foreign sky. 
 
 And mark the smile, and list the song, 
 And watch the dancers gliding by, 
 
 The fairer still they seem to be, 
 
 The more it stirs a thought of thee 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS 221 
 
 The sad, sweet bells of twilight chime, 
 
 Of many hearts may touch but one, 
 And so this seeming careless rhyme 
 
 Will whisper to thy heart alone. 
 I give it to the winds! The bird, 
 
 Let loose, to his far nest will flee, 
 And love, though breathed but on a word, 
 
 Will find thee over land and sea. 
 Though clouds across the sky have driven, 
 
 We trust at last the star will shine. 
 And hke the very light of heaven 
 
 I trust thy love. Trust thou in mine ! 
 
 SUIVRISE THOUGHTS AT THE CLOSE OY A BALL. 
 
 Morn in the East ! How coldly fair 
 
 It breaks upon my fever'd eye 1 
 How chides the calm and dewy air ! 
 
 How chides the pure and pearly sky ! 
 The stars melt in a brighter fire — 
 
 The dew, in sunshine, leaves the flowers — 
 They, from their watch, in light retire. 
 
 While we, in sadness, pass from ours. 
 
 I turn from the rebuking morn, — 
 The cold gray sky, and fading star, — 
 
 And hsten to the harp and horn, 
 
 And see the waltzers near and far — 
 
 The lamps and flowers are bright as yet 
 And lips beneath more bright than they, — 
 
222 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 How can a scene so fair beget 
 
 The mournful thoughts we bear away I 
 
 'Tis something that thou art not here, 
 
 Sweet lover of my lightest word ! 
 'Tis something that my mother's tear 
 
 By these forgetful hours is stirr'd ! 
 But I have long a loiterer been 
 
 In haunts where Joy is said to be, 
 And though with Peace I enter in, 
 
 The nymph comes never forth with me I 
 
 TO A FACE BELOVED. 
 
 The music of the waken' d lyre 
 
 Dies not upon the quivering strings, 
 Nor burns alone the minstrel's fire 
 
 Upon the lip that trembling sings ; 
 Nor shines the moon in heaven unseen, 
 
 Nor shuts the flower its fragrant cells. 
 Nor sleeps the fountain's wealth, I ween, 
 
 Forever in its sparry wells — 
 The spells of the enchanter lie 
 Not on his own lone heart — his own rapt ear and eye. 
 
 I look upon a face as fair 
 
 As ever made a lip of heaven 
 Falter amid its music-prayer ! 
 
 The first-lit star of summer even 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 22S 
 
 Springs not so softly on the eye, 
 
 Nor grows, with watching, half so bright, 
 
 Nor, 'mid its sisters of the sky, 
 
 So seems of heaven the dearest light — 
 
 Men murmur, where that face is seen. 
 My youth's angeUc dream was of that look and mien. 
 
 Yet though we deem the stars are blest, 
 
 And envy, in our grief, the flower 
 That bears but sweetness in its breast, 
 
 And fear th' enchanter for his power, 
 And love the minstrel for the spell 
 
 He winds out of his lyre so well — 
 The stars are almoners of light, 
 
 The lyrist of melodious air. 
 The fountain of its waters bright, 
 
 And every thing most sweet and fair 
 Of that by which it charms the ear. 
 
 The eye, of him that passes near — 
 A lamp is lit in woman's eye 
 That souls, else lost on earth, remember angels by. 
 
 BETTER MOMENTS. 
 
 EARLY POEM. 
 
 My mother's voice ! how often creep 
 Its accents on my lonely hours ! 
 
 Like healing sent on wings of sleep. 
 Or dew to the unconscious flowers. 
 
224 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 I can forget her melting prayer 
 While leaping pulses madlj fly, 
 
 But in the still, unbroken air, 
 
 Her gentle tone comes stealing by — 
 
 And years, and sin, and folly flee, 
 
 And leave me at my mother's knee. 
 
 The evening hours, the birds, the flowers, 
 
 The starlight, moonlight — all that's meet 
 For heaven in this lost world of ours — 
 
 Remind me of her teachings sweet. 
 My heart is harder, and perhaps 
 
 My thoughtlessness hath drunk up tears ; 
 And there's a mildew in the lapse 
 
 Of a few swift and chequer' d years — 
 But nature's book is even yet 
 With all my mother's lessons writ. 
 
 I have been out at eventide 
 
 Beneath a moonUght sky of spring, 
 When earth was garnish'd like a bride, 
 
 And night had on her silver wing — 
 When bursting leaves, and diamond grass. 
 
 And waters leaping to the light. 
 And all that make the pulses pass 
 
 With wilder fleetness, throng'd the night — 
 When all was beauty — then have I 
 
 With friends on whom my love is flung 
 Like myrrh on winds of Araby, 
 
 Grazed up where evening's lamp is hung. 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. ?25 
 
 And when the beautiful spirit there 
 
 Flung over me its golden chain, 
 My mother's voice came on the air 
 
 Like the light dropping of the rain — 
 And resting on some silver star 
 
 The spirit of a bended knee, 
 I've pour'd out low and fervent prayer 
 
 That our eternity might be 
 To rise in heaven, like stars at night, 
 And tread a Uving path of light. 
 
 I have been on the dewy hills, 
 
 When night was stealing from the dawn, 
 And mist was on the waking rills, 
 
 And tints were delicately drawn 
 In the gray East — when birds were waking, 
 
 With a low murmur in the trees. 
 And melody by fits was breaking 
 
 Upon the whisper of the breeze — 
 And this when I was forth, perchance 
 As a worn reveller from the dance — 
 
 And when the sun sprang gloriously 
 And freely up, and hill and river 
 
 Were catching upon wave and tree 
 The arrows from his subtle quiver — 
 
 I say a voice has thrill'd me then, 
 Heard on the still and rushing light. 
 
 Or, creeping from the silent glen. 
 Like words from the departing night. 
 
 Hath stricken me, and I have press'd 
 
!26 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 On the wet grass my fever'd brow, 
 And pouring forth the earhest 
 
 First prayer, with which I learn' d to bow, 
 Have felt my mother's spirit rush 
 
 Upon me as in by-past years, 
 And, yielding to the blessed gush 
 
 Of my ungovernable tears, 
 
 Have risen up — the gay, the wild — 
 Subdued and humble as a child. 
 
 THE ANNOYER. 
 
 " Common as light 's love, 
 And its familiar voice wearies not ever."- Suellbt. 
 
 Love knoweth every form of air, 
 
 And every shape of earth. 
 And comes, unbidden, everywhere, 
 
 Like thought's mysterious birth. 
 The moonlit sea and the sunset sky 
 
 Are written with Love's words. 
 And you hear his voice unceasingly, 
 
 Like song in the time of birds. 
 
 He peeps into the warrior's heart 
 From the tip of a stooping plume, 
 
 And the serried spears and the many men 
 May not deny him room. 
 
 He'll come to his tent in the weary night, 
 And be busy in his dream ; 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 22^ 
 
 And he'll float to his eye in morning light 
 Like a fiay on a silver beam. 
 
 He hears the sound of the hunter's gun, 
 
 And rides on the echo back, 
 And sighs in his ear, like a stirring leaf, 
 
 And flits in his woodland track. 
 The shade of the wood, and the sheen of the river. 
 
 The cloud and the open sky — 
 He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver, 
 
 Like the Hght of your very eye. 
 
 The fisher hangs over the leaning boat, 
 
 And ponders the silver sea, 
 For Love is under the surface hid, 
 
 And a vspell of thought has he. 
 He heaves the wave like a bosom sweet, 
 
 And speaks in the ripple low. 
 Till the bait is gone from the crafty line, 
 
 And the hook hangs bare below. 
 
 He blurs the print of the scholar's book, 
 
 And intrudes in the maiden's prayer, 
 And profanes the cell of the holy man. 
 
 In the shape of a lady fair. 
 In the darkest night, and the bright daylight, 
 
 In earth, and sea, and sky. 
 In every home of human thought, 
 
 Will Love be lurking nigh. 
 19 
 
228 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 ANDRE'S REQUEST TO WASHINGTON. 
 
 It is not the fear of death 
 
 That damps my brow, 
 It is not for another breath 
 
 I ask thee now ; 
 I can die with a lip unstirr'd 
 
 And a quiet heart — 
 Let but this prayer be heard 
 
 Ere I depart. 
 
 I can give up my mother's look — 
 
 My sister's kiss ; 
 I can think of love — ^yet brook 
 
 A death like this ! 
 I can give up the young fame 
 
 I barn'd to win — 
 All — ^but the spotless name 
 
 I glory in. 
 
 Thine is the power to give, 
 
 Thine to deny, 
 Joy for the hour I live — 
 
 Calmness to die. 
 By all the brave should cherish, 
 
 By my dying breath, 
 I ask that I may perish 
 
 By a soldier's death I 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 22y 
 
 DAWN. 
 
 T%at line I learned not in the old sad song." — Charles Lamb. 
 
 Throw up the window ! 'Tis a morn for life 
 In its most subtle luxury. The air 
 Is like a breathing from a rarer world ; 
 And the south wind is like a gentle friend, 
 Parting the hair so softly on my brow. 
 It has come over gardens, and the flowers 
 That kiss'd it are be tray' d ; for as it parts, 
 With its invisible fingers, my loose hair, 
 I know it has been trifling with the rose, 
 And stooping to the violet. There is joy 
 For all Grod's creatures in it. The wet leaves 
 Are stirring at its touch, and birds are singing 
 As if to breathe were music, and the grass 
 Sends up its modest odor with the dew, 
 Like the small tribute of humility. 
 
 I had awoke from an unpleasant dream, 
 And light was welcome to me. I look'd out 
 To feel the common air, and when the breath 
 Of the delicious morning met my brow. 
 Cooling its fever, and the pleasant sun 
 Shone on familiar objects, it was like 
 The feeling of the captive who comes forth 
 From darkness to the cheerful light of day. 
 Oh ! could we wake from sorrow ; were it all 
 A troubled dream like this, to cast aside 
 
230 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 Like an untimely garment with the mora; 
 
 Could the long fever of the heart be cool'd 
 
 By a sweet breath from nature ; or the gloom 
 
 Of a bereaved affection pass away 
 
 With looking on the hvely tint of flowers — 
 
 How lightly were the spirit reconciled 
 
 To make this beautiful, bright world its home i 
 
 EXTRACT 
 
 VBOM A POEM DELIVERKD AT THE DEPARTTTRK OF THE SKN-IOK CLASS 
 OF YALE COLLEGE, IN 1827. 
 
 We shall go forth together. There will come 
 
 Alike the day of trial unto all, 
 
 And the rude world will buflfet us alike. 
 
 Temptation hath a music for all ears ; 
 
 And mad ambition trumpeteth to all ; 
 
 And the ungovernable thought within 
 
 Will be in every bosom eloquent ; — 
 
 But when the silence and the calm come on. 
 
 And the high seal of character is set, 
 
 We shall not all be similar. The flow 
 
 Of life-time is a graduated scale ; 
 
 And deeper than the vanities of power, 
 
 Or the vain pomp of glory, there is set 
 
 A standard measuring our worth for Heaven. 
 
 The pathway to the grave may be the same. 
 
 And the proud man shall tread it, and the low. 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 2-'^l 
 
 With his bow'd head, shall bear him company. 
 
 And there will be no precedence of power, 
 
 In walking at the coming trump of God I 
 
 But in the temper of the invisible mind, 
 
 The godlike and undying intellect. 
 
 There are distinctions that will live in heaven, 
 
 When time is a forgotten circumstance ! 
 
 The elevated brow of kings will lose 
 
 The impress of regalia, and the slave 
 
 Will wear his immortality as free, 
 
 Beside the crystal waters ; but the depth 
 
 Of glory in the attributes of God, 
 
 Will measure the capacities of mind ; 
 
 And as the angels differ, will the ken 
 
 Of gifted spirits glorify him more. 
 
 'Tis life's probation task. The soul of man 
 
 Create th its own destiny of power; 
 
 And, as the trial is intenser here. 
 
 His being hath a nobler strength in heaven. 
 
 What is its earthly victory ? Press on I 
 Por it hath tempted angels. Yet press on 1 
 Tor it shall make you mighty among mcnj 
 And from the eyrie of your eagle thought. 
 Ye shall look down on monarchs. press on I 
 For the high ones and powerful shall come 
 To do you reverence : and the beautiful 
 Will know the purer language of your brow 
 And read it like a talisman of love 1 
 Press on ! for it is godlike to unloose 
 19* 
 
232 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 The spirit, and forget yourself in thought; 
 Bending a pinion for the deeper sky, 
 And, in the very fetters of your flesh, 
 Mating with the pure essences of heaven I 
 Press on! — "for in the grave there is no work, 
 And no device." — Press on! while yet ye nr»nyl 
 
 So lives the soul of man. It is the thirst 
 Of his immortal nature ; and he rends 
 The rock for secret fountains, and pursues 
 The path of the illimitable wind 
 For mysteries — and this is human pride I 
 There is a softer winding path through life, 
 And man may walk it witii unruffled soul 
 And drink its wayside waters till his heart 
 Is still'd with its o'erflowing happiness. 
 The chart by which to traverse it is writ 
 In the broad book of nature. 'Tis to have 
 Attentive and believing faculties ; 
 To go abroad rejoicing in the joy 
 Of beautiful and well-created things ; 
 To love the voice of waters and the sheen 
 Of silver fountains leaping to the sea ; 
 To thrill with the rich melody of birds, 
 Living their life of music ; to be glad 
 In the gay sunshine, reverent in the storm. 
 To see a beauty in the stirring leaf, 
 And find calm thoughts beneath the whisperinr ^r^p 
 To see, and hear, and breathe the evidence 
 Of Grod's deep wisdom in the natural world ! 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 233 
 
 It is to linger on " the magic face 
 
 Of human beauty," and from light and shade 
 
 Alike to draw a lesson : 'tis to know 
 
 The cadences of voices that are tuned 
 
 By majesty and purity of thought ; 
 
 To gaze on woman's beauty, as a star 
 
 Whose purity and distance make it fairj 
 
 And from the spell of music to awake. 
 
 And feel that it has purified the heart I 
 
 It is to love all virtue, like the light. 
 
 Dear to the soul as sunshine to the eye ; 
 
 And when the senses and the mind are fill'd 
 
 Like wells from these involuntary springs. 
 
 It is to calm the trembling depths with prayer, 
 
 That it may be but a reflected Heaven. 
 
 Thus would I, at this parting honr, be true 
 To teachings which to me have priceless been. 
 Thus would I — hke a just-departing child, 
 Who lingers on the threshold of his home — 
 Strive, with vague murmurings and lingering looks, 
 To store up what were sweetest to recall. 
 And oh, be this remember'd ! — that when life 
 Shall have become a weariness, and hope 
 Thirsts for serener waters, we may go 
 Forth to God's wild-wood temples, and while all 
 Its choirs breathe music, and its leafy aisles 
 Are solemn with the beauty of the world, 
 Kneel at its unwrought altar, and the cup 
 That holds the " living waters" will be near. 
 
234 WILLIS'S POEMS 
 
 THE ELMS OF NEW HAVEN. 
 
 [kXTRACTS from X POEM DELIVERED BEFORE THE LINONIAN BOCIETT 
 OF YALE COLLEGE, NEW HAVEN.] 
 
 * * * * The leaves we knew 
 
 Are gone, these many summers, and the winds 
 
 Have scatter'd them all roughly through the world ; 
 
 But still, in calm and venerable strength, 
 
 The old stems lift their burthens up to heaven, 
 
 And the young leaves to the same pleasant tune, 
 
 Drink in the light, and strengthen, and grow fair. 
 
 The shadows have the same cool, emerald air ; 
 
 And prodigal as ever is the breeze, 
 
 Distributing the verdure's temperate balm. 
 
 The trees are sweet to us. The outcry strong 
 
 Of the long-wandering and returning heart. 
 
 Is for the thing least changed. A stone unturn'd, 
 
 Is sweeter than a strange or alter'd face ; 
 
 A tree, that flings its shadow as of yore, 
 
 "Will make the blood stir, sometimes, when the words 
 
 Of a long-look' d-for lip fall icy cold. 
 
 Te, who in this Academy of shade. 
 
 Dreamt out the scholar's dream, and then away 
 
 On troubled seas went voyaging with Care, 
 
 But hail to-day the well-rcmember'd haven — 
 
 Ye, who at memory's trumpet-call, have stay'd 
 
 The struggling foot of life, the warring hand, 
 
 And, weary of the strife^ come back to see 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 235 
 
 The green tent where your harness was put on — 
 Say — when you trod the shadowy street this morn, 
 Leapt not you heart up to the glorious trees ! 
 Say — was it only to my sleep they came — 
 The angels, who to these remember'd trees 
 Brought me back, ever ? I have come, in dream, 
 From many a far land, many a brighter sky, 
 And trod these dappled shadows till the morn. 
 From every Gothic isle my heart fled home, 
 From every groined roof, and pointed arch. 
 To find its type in emerald beauty here. 
 The moon we vvorshipp'd thro' this trembling veil. 
 In other heavens seem'd garish and uliclad. 
 The stars that burn'd to us thro' whispering leaves. 
 Stood cold and silently in other skies. 
 Stiller seem'd alway here the holy dawn 
 Hush'd by the breathless silence of the trees ; 
 And who, that ever, on a Sabbath morn, 
 Sent thro' this leafy roof a prayer to Heaven, 
 And when the sweet bells burst upon the air, 
 Saw the leaves quiver, and the flecks of light 
 Leap like caressing angels to the feet 
 Of the church-going multitude, but felt 
 That here, God's day was holier — that the trees, 
 Pierc'd by these shining spires, and echoing ever 
 "To prayer 1" "To prayer I" were but the lofty roof 
 Of an unhewn cathedral, in whose choirs 
 Breezes and storm-winds, and the many birds 
 Join'd in the varied anthem ; and that so. 
 Resting their breasts upon these bending limbs, 
 
236 Willis's poems. 
 
 Closer, and readier to our need they lay — 
 
 The spirits who keep watch 'twixt us and Heaven. 
 
 Alas ! not spirits of bright wing alone 
 " Dwell by the oracle of God." The tree 
 That with its bright spray fans the sacred spire, 
 And trembles Hke a seraph's lyre to prayer. 
 Is peopled with the lying ministers 
 To new-born passions, who, with couchant ear, 
 Follow the lone steps of the musing boy, 
 And ere the wild wish struggles to the light, 
 Mask its dark features, and with silvery voice 
 Promise it wings resistless. Back, to-day, 
 Comes many a foot, all wearily and slow, 
 That went into the world with winged heel ; 
 And many a man, still young, though wisely sad, 
 Paces the sweet old shadows with a sigh. 
 The spirits are so mute to manhood's ear 
 That tranced the boy with music. On a night, 
 The fairest of a summer, years ago. 
 There walk'd a youth beneath these arching trees. 
 The moon was in mid-heaven, an orb of gold. 
 The air was rock'd asleep, or, 'mid the leaves 
 Waked without whisper. On the pavement lay 
 The broken moonbeams, like a silver net. 
 Massive and motionless, and, if a bird 
 Sang a half carol as the moon wore on 
 And look'd into his nest, or if the note 
 Of a monotonous insect caught the ear, 
 
Willis's poems. 237 
 
 The silence was but challenged by the sound. 
 
 And night seeni'd stiller after. With his heart 
 
 Eobb'd of its sentinel, the youth paced on. 
 
 His truant soul lay breathless on his lips, 
 
 Drowsed with the speU of the voluptuous air ; 
 
 And shut was memory's monitory book ; 
 
 And mute, alas ! as they will sometimes be, 
 
 Were Heaven's rebuking angels. Then uprose 
 
 In the unguarded chamber of his heart, 
 
 A murmur, inarticulate and wild ; 
 
 And ere it had a semblance, or a name, 
 
 A soft voice from the trees said, " Wak'st thou there ? 
 
 Wak'st thou, at last, nature ? Thou hast slept, 
 
 Far through the morn, and glowing flowers of joy. 
 
 Many and bright ones, hast thou lost forever ; 
 
 But Kfe is full of roses — come away ! 
 
 Shut up those dreary books, and come away ! 
 
 Why is the night so passionately sweet, 
 
 If made for study and a brow of care ? 
 
 Why are your lips pride, and your eyes soft fire ? — 
 
 Why beautiful in youth, — if cold to joy ? 
 
 List to the pleading senses, where they lie, 
 
 Numb and forgotten in the cell of thought ; 
 
 Yet they are God's gift/ — precious as the rest. 
 
 Use what thou hast — turn to the soft path ever, — 
 
 And, in the garden of this pleasant world, 
 
 Pluck what seems fairest to thee !" A light wind 
 
 Stole through the trees, and with its airy hand 
 
 Lifted the leafy veil from off the moon ; 
 
 And steadfastly Night's solemn eye look'd in 
 
238 Willis's poems. 
 
 Upon the flush'd face of the troubled boy — 
 And the mysterious voice was heard no more. 
 
 Again 'twas night. A storm was in the air ; 
 
 And, by his pale and solitary lamp, 
 
 A youth of sterner temper than the last, 
 
 Kept the lone scholar's vigil. He had laid 
 
 His book upon its face, and with his head 
 
 Turn'd to the rattling casement, sat erect, 
 
 And listen'd to the shrill, tempestuous wind. 
 
 Gust after gust swept by, and as the scream 
 
 Of the careering tempest fiercer came, 
 
 The youth's dark brow crouch'd lowering to his eye, 
 
 And his thin lips press'd bloodlessly together ; 
 
 And with some muttering words, as if replying 
 
 To voices that call'd to him from the storm, 
 
 He rose, and hurriedly strode forth. The air 
 
 Below the lashing tree- tops was all black. 
 
 The lofty trunks creak'd staggering in the wind, 
 
 But all invisibly ; and in the sky 
 
 Was only so much light as must be there 
 
 While hope is the world. Small need had then 
 
 The spirit who would wile that heart fiom Heaveu 
 
 To lend it mask or utterance. With step 
 
 Eeckless and fast the wanderer sped on. 
 
 And as the tempest smote upon his breast, 
 
 And howlingly fled past, he clench'd his hands, 
 
 And struck his strong arms thro' the air, and rush'd 
 
 Headlong with flying fury thro' the dark. 
 
 Breathless and hoarse, at last, against the trunk 
 
WILLIS S POEMS. 230 
 
 Of a vast tree he stood ; and to an ear 
 Bending from out the branches as they swung, 
 Unconsciously he mutter' d : — " I am weak, 
 And this wild storm is mighty ; but I feel 
 A joy in its career, as if my soul 
 Breathed only thus. I am aroused — unchain'd, 
 Something gives outcry in me that was dumb, 
 Something that pined for weapons is in arms, 
 And set on with a trumpet. Glorious blast ! 
 What is my poor tranquillity of life — 
 My abject study — to thy stormy joy ? 
 An intellect is mine — a passive soul 
 Antagonist to nothing — while for thee, 
 A senseless element, are wings and power — 
 Power to dash the stars out from the sky — 
 "Wings to keep pace with midnight round the world. 
 The lightning's fiery traverse is no bar, 
 The thunder's hush no check, the howling trees 
 Only thy music. Demon, if thou art I 
 Prince of the powers of air, if such there be 1 
 Darkness and conflict are my element, 
 As they are thine 1" The storm lull'd suddenly, 
 The tortur'd trees stood silent in the gloom, 
 And all was still — save that amid the leaves 
 Stirr'd a low murmur, which, like airy lips, 
 Whispering close into the scholar's ear. 
 Became articulate : — " Be calm I be calm 1 
 Return to thy neglected books, and read ! 
 Thou shalt have all thou wilt, but, in thy books, 
 Lie weapons keener than the lightning's edge, 
 20 
 
240 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 And in thy intellect a power of ill 
 To ■which the storm-wiiid is an infant's anger. 
 The blast blots out the stars that shine again. 
 The storm- wind and the darkness leave the trees 
 Brighter for morn to smile on ; but the mind 
 Forges from knowledge an archangel's spear, 
 And, with the spirits that compel the world, 
 Conflicts for empire. Call thy hate of day, 
 Thy scorn of men, ambition I — and, if moved 
 By something in thy heart to wrong and slay — 
 Justice sits careless with a bloody sword ; 
 Eehgion has remorseless whips ; and gold 
 Brings to thy spurning foot the necks of men. 
 Be thou the sword — the whip— get thou the gold- 
 And borne triumphant upon human praise. 
 The lightning were too slow to do thy wiU — 
 The stormy night not black enough." Again 
 Toward the window glimmering thro' the dark 
 The scholar turn'd, and with a pallid brow, 
 But Hps of marble, fed his wasting lamp. 
 And patiently read down the morning star. 
 And he was changed thenceforward. * * 
 ********* 
 
 ***** Wave once more 
 The wand athwart the mirror of the past. 
 A summer's eve in June. The sun had shot 
 A golden arrow down yon leafy aisle, 
 And to his tent gone in. The dusty air 
 Paraded in his glory. The bright spires, 
 
WILLIS S POEMS, 241 
 
 Like mourners who still see the lost in Heaven, 
 
 Shone in his smile as if he had not set ; 
 And presently, amid his glowing track, 
 Like one who came reluctant to replace 
 The great light newly lied, the evening star 
 Stood forth with timid and diminish'd ray — 
 But brighten'd as the sun was longer gone. 
 Life was a feast at this dehcious hour, 
 And all came forth to it. The bent old man 
 Paced musingly before his open door. 
 The tired child, with hands cross'd droopingly, 
 Sat at the threshold. Slowly pass'd the dame. 
 Slowly the listless scholar, sauntering back 
 To his shut books unwillingly ; and low — 
 Soften'd and low — as if the chord of love 
 Were struck and harmonized throughout the world, 
 The hum of voices rose upon the air. 
 Hush'd were the trees the while ; and voiceless lay 
 The wakeful spirits in the leaves, till, lo ! 
 A pale youth* minghng in the throng ! With light 
 And airy step, and mien of such a grace 
 As breathes thro' marble from the sculptor's dream. 
 He pass'd, and after him the stranger's eye 
 Turn'd with inquiring wonder. Dumb no more 
 Were the invisible dwellers in the trees ; 
 For, as he went, the feathery branches seem'd 
 To " syllable his name ;" and to (he ears 
 Of them who met him, whispering music flew. 
 Stealing their hearts away to link to his. 
 " James IIiLLiiousn, who had died at New Ilaven a few months bcfor-" 
 
*242 W I L L I S S P O E M ^^ . 
 
 " Love him 1" the old man heard as it the leaves 
 
 Of his own roof-tree murmur'd it; " Love well 
 
 The poet who may sow your grave with flowers, 
 
 The traveller to the far land of the Past, 
 
 Lost to your feet forever 1" Sadly lean'd 
 
 The mourner at her window as he came, 
 
 And the far-drooping elm-leaf touch'd her brow, 
 
 And whisper'd, '■'■He has counted all thy tears ! 
 
 The breaking chord was audible to him ! 
 
 The agony for which thou, weeping, saidst 
 
 There was no pity, for its throbs were dumb — 
 
 He look'd but in thine eyes, and read it all ! 
 
 Love him, for sorrowing with thee !" The sad child 
 
 Sitting alone with his unheeded grief, 
 
 Look'd at him through his tears, and smiled to hear 
 
 The same strange voice that talk'd to him in dreams 
 
 Speak from the low tree softly ; and it said — 
 
 '' The stranger who looks on thee loves the child! 
 
 He has seen angels like thee ; and thy sorrow 
 
 Touches his own, as he goes silent by. 
 
 Love him, fair child !" The poor man, from his door, 
 
 Look'd forth with cheerful face, and as the eye, 
 
 The soft eye of the poet, tarn'd to his, 
 
 A whisper from the tree said, " This is he 
 
 Who knows thy heart is human as his OAvn, 
 
 "Who, with inspired numbers, tells the world 
 
 That love dwells with the lowly. He has made 
 
 The humble roof a burthen in sweet song — 
 
 Literpreted thy heart to happier men ! 
 
 Love him! oh, love him, therefore!" The stern mar 
 
WILLIS S POEMS. 243 
 
 Who, with the tender spirit of a child, 
 
 Walks in some thorny path, unloved and lone; 
 
 The maiden with her secret ; the sad mother, 
 
 Speaking no more of her dishonor'd boy, 
 
 But, bound to him with all her heart-strings yet, — 
 
 These heard the trees say, as the poet pass'd, 
 
 " Yours is the mournful poetry of life, 
 
 And in the sad lines, of your silent lips. 
 
 Reads he with tenderest pity ! Knit to him 
 
 The hearts he opens like a clasped book, 
 
 And, in the honey'd music of his verse, 
 
 Hear your dumb griefs made eloquent 1" With eye 
 
 Watchful and moist, the poet kept his way, 
 
 Unconscious of the love around him springing ; 
 
 And when from its bent path the evening star 
 
 Stepp'd silently^ and left the lesser fires 
 
 Lonely in heaven, the poet had gone in, 
 
 Mute with the many sorrows he had seen , 
 
 And, with the constancy of starry eyes, 
 
 The hearts he touch'd drew to him. * ^ 
 
 THE THOUGHT ANGEL. 
 
 A WAKING AND SLEEPING DREAM. 
 
 Night is the sick man's day. 
 For the soul wakens as the body fails. 
 I had told the weary hours ; but, with the hush 
 Of midnight, my last memory of pain 
 20* 
 
 i ^^ 
 
244 WILLIS S POEMS. 
 
 Had still'd before a thought of sudden brightness. 
 And, hke one rising upon spirit-limbs, 
 Rose I, and wander'd with that thought, away. 
 Oh, the blest truants that we are, when sense, 
 The master, is too weak to call us in. 
 And, loosed as if the school-time of a life 
 Were over, with its spirit-checking toils, 
 We to the fields stray — following where'er 
 Fancy, the vagrant, calls us ! 
 
 All unshod 
 Went by the hours, that with such heavy heel 
 Come last in the slow vigils of the strong, 
 And the dawn broke. Call'd in from spirit-strayiiig, 
 I knew again that I was weak and ill, 
 Beginnmg on another day of pain ; 
 But, with a blessing on my Thought — (whose track, 
 Far through a wilderness untrod before. 
 It seem'd that I might tell of with a pen 
 Wing'd with illuminated words) — I slept. 
 
 And presently I dream'd. In conscious sleep, 
 I knew that what I saw was but a dream. 
 The curtains of my bed I knew, the while. 
 Tented me round ; and on a couch beyond 
 Lay a loved watcher by a dimming lamp ; 
 And I remember' d her — and where I lay — ■ 
 And that the hour was morning — yet I saw, 
 As if my dim room were dissolved in air, 
 The vision I shall paint you. 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 24; 
 
 Lo ! my Thought I 
 The Thought that I had follow' d in rapt waking, 
 And, of whose sweet revealings unto me, 
 I long'd, in glowing words, to tell the world — 
 That Thought I saw — clad in a breatliing shape, 
 And, like a sylph upon an errand sped, 
 Prone for an arrowy flight, and through the air 
 Cleaving its way resistless. The cleft wind, 
 Revealingly, to that symmetric Thought 
 Press'd its transparent dress ; and beautiful — 
 Oh, beautiful as are the shapes divine 
 Which woman's form makes possible to dream — 
 Lay its impulsive outUne on the air. 
 I kindled with the pride that it was mine, 
 The glory of its beauty — of my soul 
 The easy effluence, moulded with a breath, 
 And given, a rich gift, idly to the world. 1 
 And carelessly I sped it on its way — 
 But — turn'd to look on it once more. 
 
 And, lo! 
 A cloud, now, lay aback between its wings, 
 Drawn by its motion onward — a small cloud 
 That, from the night-enveloped world below, 
 Seem'd lighted by the half-arisen moon. 
 I saw it, not as one upon the earth. 
 But as they see from Ileaven. And as, again, 
 I watch'd that Thought— (irrevocably sped. 
 Without a fear that it might turn to ill. 
 Without a prayer that it might bless in fleeing) — • 
 
246 Willis's poems. 
 
 Behold, all calmly with it, on the cloud. 
 
 Rode a wing'd angel with an open book ; 
 
 And — of the hearts it moved — and of the dreams^ 
 
 Passions, and hopes it calVd on as it flew — 
 
 Of all it gave a voice to, that had else 
 
 Slumbered unutter'd in the Thought-ruled worlJ. — 
 
 Tliat angel kept a record. 
 
 " Thou, hereafter," 
 Said a voice near me, " shalt that record hear ; 
 For, in thy using of that gift of power, 
 Speeding what Thought thou wilt across the world. 
 Thou speak'st with the pervading voice of God, 
 And, as thy sway of the world's heart, will be 
 The reckoning with thy Maker. Human Thought, 
 Oh poet, lightly may take wondrous wings. 
 Thy careless link binds words to travel far. 
 But oh, take heed ! — for see — by dream-revealing — 
 How Thoughts of power with angels go attended, 
 Outfleeting never the calm pen that writes 
 Tlieir history for Heaven .'" 
 
 The sun shone in 
 Upon my wind-stirr'd curtains, and I woke. 
 And this had been a dream. 'Tis sometimes so: — 
 We dream ourselves what we have striven to be. 
 And hear what had been well for us to hear. 
 Did our dreams shadow what we ai-e. 
 
WILLIS S POEMS. 247 
 
 DESPONDENCY IN SPRING. 
 
 Beautiful robin ! with thy feathers red 
 
 Contrasting, flower-hke, with the soft green tree. 
 Making thy Uttle flights, as thou art led 
 
 By things that tempt a simple one like thee. 
 I would that thou couldst warble me to tears 
 As lightly as the birds of other years ! 
 
 Idly to lie beneath an April sun, 
 Pressmg the perfume from the tender grass ; 
 
 To watch a joyous rivulet leap on 
 With the clear tinkle of a music glass, 
 And, as I saw the early robin pass, 
 
 To hear him through his httle compass run — 
 Only with joys like these to overflow 
 Is happiness my heart will no more know. 
 
 TO LAURA W , TWO YEARS OF AGE. 
 
 Bright be the skies that cover thee, 
 
 Cliild of the sunny brow — 
 Bright as the dream fluni: over thee — 
 
 By all that meets thee now — 
 Thy ho'-vrt is beating joyously, 
 
 Thy voice is like a bird's — 
 And s'l'i^eetly breaks the melody 
 
 Of thy imperfect words. 
 I know no fount that gushes out 
 As gladly as thy tiny shout. 
 
248 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 I would that thou might'st ever be 
 
 As beautiful as now, — • 
 That time might ever leave as free 
 
 Thy yet unwritten brow : 
 I would hfe were " all poetry" 
 
 To gentle measure set, 
 That nought but chasten'd melody 
 
 Might stain thine eye of jet — 
 Nor one discordant note be spoken, 
 Till God the cunning harp hath broken. 
 
 I would — ^but deeper things than these 
 
 With woman's lot are wove : 
 "Wrought of intensest sympathies. 
 
 And nerved by purest love — 
 By the strong spirit's discipline, 
 
 By the fierce wrong forgiven, 
 By all that wrings the heart of sin, 
 
 Is woman won to heaven. 
 " Her lot is on thee," lovely child — 
 God keep thy spirit undefiled 1 
 
 I fear thy gentle loveliness. 
 
 Thy witching tone and air. 
 Thine eye's beseecliing earnestness 
 
 May be to thee a snare. 
 The silver stars may pure'y shine, 
 
 The waters taintless flow — 
 But they wiio kneel at woman's shrine, 
 
 Wreathe poisons as they bow — 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 249 
 
 She may fling back the gift again, 
 
 But the crush'd flower will ofteuest stain. 
 
 What shall preserve thee, beautiful child ? 
 
 Keep thee as thou art now ? 
 Bring thee, a spirit undefiled, 
 
 At God's pure throne to bow ? 
 The world is but a broken reed, 
 
 And life grows early dim — 
 Who shall be near thee in thy need, 
 
 To lead thee up to Him ? 
 He, who Himself was " undefiled ?'' 
 With Him we trust thee, beautiful child ! 
 
 TO . 
 
 Thy love is like the thread of a new moon 
 Drawn on the faint blue of a break in clouds : — 
 The thunder of a storm not surely o'er 
 Murmurs beneath it, and the lightning gleams 
 Brokenly still, in one mass dark and near, 
 As if it would close turbulently o'er. 
 And make all black again. But, motionless. 
 As 'twere an angel's shallop in a calm, 
 The bent moon floats, and its round freight of hope 
 Lies in its breast— to unbelieving eyes 
 A shadow that can never grow more fair, — 
 But, to tlie clearer-sigated stars, a promise 
 Of briirhtness that will wax to fill a heaven. 
 
250 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 THE TORN HAT. 
 
 ***** "A leaf 
 Fresh flung upon a river, that will danco 
 Upon the wave that stealeth out its life, 
 Then sink of its own heaviness." 
 
 Philip Slingsbt, 
 
 There's something in a noble boy, 
 
 A brave, free-hearted, careless one, 
 With his uncheck'd, unbidden joy, 
 
 His dread of books and love of fun, 
 And in his clear and ready smile. 
 Unshaded by a thought of guile, 
 
 And unrepress'd by sadness — 
 Which brings me to my childhood back. 
 As if I trod its very track. 
 
 And felt its very gladness. 
 And yet it is not in his play, 
 
 When every trace of thought is lost, 
 And not when you w^ould call him gay. 
 
 That his bright presence thrills me most 
 
 His shout may ring upon the hill, 
 His voice be echoed in the hall. 
 
 His merry laugh like music trill, 
 And I unheeding hear it all — 
 
 For, like the wrinkles on my brow, 
 
 I scarcely notice such things now — 
 But when, amid the earnest game, 
 
 He stops, as if he music heard, 
 
Willis's poems. 251 
 
 And, heedless of his shouted name 
 
 As of the carol of a bird, 
 Stands gazing on the empty air 
 As if some dream were passing there — 
 
 'Tis then that on his face I book, 
 His beautiful but thoughtful face, 
 
 And, like a long-forgotten look, 
 Its sweet, familiar meaning trace — 
 
 Remembering a thousand things 
 
 Which pass'd me on those golden wings, 
 Which time has fetter'd now — 
 
 Things tliat came o'er me with a thrill, 
 
 And left me silent, sad, and still, 
 And threw upon my brow 
 
 A holier and a gentler cast. 
 
 That was too innocent to last. 
 
 'Tis strange how thought upon a child 
 
 Will, Uke a presence, sometimes press — 
 And when his pulse is beating wild, 
 
 And life itself is in excess — 
 When foot and hand, and ear and eye. 
 Are all with ardor straining high — 
 
 How in his heart will spring 
 A feeling, whose mysterious thrall 
 Is stronger, sweeter far than all ; 
 
 And, on its silent wing, 
 How with the clouds he'll float aw:iy. 
 As wandering and as lost ls they ! 
 21 
 
252 WILLIS S POEMS. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG GIRL. 
 
 'Tis difficult to feel that she is dead. 
 
 Her presence, like the shadow of a wing 
 
 That is just lessening in the upper sky. 
 
 Lingers upon us. We can hear her voice; 
 
 And for her step we listen, and the eye 
 
 Looks for her wonted coming with a strange, 
 
 Forgetful earnestness. We cannot feel 
 
 That she will no more come — that from her cheek 
 
 The delicate flush has faded, and the light 
 
 Dead in her soft dark eye, and on her lip, 
 
 That was so exquisitely pure, the dew 
 
 Of the damp grave has fallen ! Who so loved, 
 
 Is left among the living ? Who hath walk'd 
 
 The world with such a winning loveliness, 
 
 And on its bright brief journey gather'd up 
 
 Such treasures of affection ? She was loved 
 
 Only as idols are. She was the pride 
 
 Of her familiar sphere — the daily joy 
 
 Of all who on her gracefulness might gaze, 
 
 And in the light and music of her way, 
 
 Have a companion's portion. Who could feel, 
 
 While looking upon beauty such as hers, 
 
 That it would ever perish ? It is like 
 
 The melting of a star into the sky 
 
 While you are gazing on it, or a dream 
 
 In its most ravishing sweetness rudely broken. 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 253 
 
 MAY. 
 
 Oh, the merry May has pleasant hours, 
 
 And dreamily they glide, 
 As if they floated like the leaves 
 
 Upon a silver tide. 
 The trees are full of crimson buds, 
 
 And the woods are full of birds, 
 And the vv^aters flow to music, 
 
 Like a tune with pleasant words. 
 
 The verdure of the meadow-land 
 
 Is creeping to the hills, 
 The sweet, blue bosom'd violets 
 
 Are blowing by the rills ; 
 The lilach has a load of balm 
 
 Por every wind that stirs, 
 And the larch stands green and beautiful 
 
 Amid the sombre firs. 
 
 There's perfume upon every wind — 
 
 Music in every tree — 
 Dews for the moisture-loving floweis — 
 
 Sweets for the sucking bee ; 
 The sick come forth for the healing South, 
 
 The young are gathering flowers ; 
 And life is a tale of poetry, 
 
 That is told by golden hours. 
 
254 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 It must be a true philosophy, 
 
 That the spirit when set free 
 Still lingers about its olden home, 
 
 In the flower and the tree, 
 For the pulse is stirr'd as with voices heard 
 
 In the depth of the shady grove, 
 And while lonely we stray through the fields away 
 The heart seems answering love. 
 
 THE SOLITARY. 
 
 A PICTUKE. 
 
 Alone ! alone ! How drear it is 
 
 Always to be aloije ! 
 In such a depth of wilderness. 
 
 The only thinking one I 
 The waters in their path rejoice, 
 
 The trees together sleep — 
 But I have not one silver voice 
 
 Upon my ear to creep ! 
 
 The sun upon the silent hills 
 
 His mesh of beauty weaves. 
 There's music in the laughing rills 
 
 And in the whispering leaves. 
 The red deer like the breezes fly 
 
 To meet the bounding roe, 
 But I have not a human sigh 
 
 To cheer me as I go. 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 255 
 
 Pre hated men — I hate them now — 
 
 But, since they are not here, 
 I thirst for the famihar brow — 
 
 Thirst for the steahng tear. 
 And I should love to see the one, 
 
 And feel the other creep, 
 And then again I'd be alone 
 
 Amid the forest deep. 
 
 I thought that I should love my hound — 
 
 Hear my resounding gun, 
 Till I forgot the thrilling sound 
 
 Of voices — one by one. 
 I thought that in the leafy hush 
 
 Of nature they would die ; 
 But, as the hinder'd waters rush, 
 
 Resisted feelings fly. 
 
 I'm weary of my lonely hut 
 
 And of its blasted tree, 
 The very lake is hke my lot. 
 
 So silent constantly. 
 I've lived amid the forest gloom 
 
 Until I almost fear — 
 When will the thrilling voices come 
 
 My spirit thirsts to hear ? 
 21* 
 
256 WILLIS'S POEMS, 
 
 SONNET 
 
 Storm had been on the hills. The day had worn 
 
 As if a sleep upon the hours had crept ; 
 And the dark clouds that gather'd at the morn 
 
 In dull, impenetrable masses slept, 
 And the wet leaves hung droopinglj, and all 
 Was like the mournful aspect of a pall. 
 
 Suddenly, on the horizon's edge, a blue 
 And delicate line, as of a pencil, lay, 
 
 And, as it wider and intenser grew. 
 The darkness removed silently away, 
 
 And, with the splendor of a God. broke through 
 The perfect glory of departing day : 
 
 So, when his stormy pilgrimage is o'ei-, 
 
 Will light upon the dying Christian pour. 
 
 ACROSTIC — SONNET. 
 
 Elegance floats about thee like a dress, 
 
 Melting the airy motion of thy form - 
 Into one swaying grace ; and loveliness. 
 
 Like a rich tint that makes a picture warm, 
 Is lurking in the chestnut of thy tress, 
 
 Enriching it, as moonlight after storm 
 Mingles dark shadows into gentleness. 
 
 A beauty that bewilders like a spell 
 Reigns in thine eye's clear hazel, and thy brow, 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 257 
 
 So pure in vein'd transparency, doth tell 
 How spiritually beautiful art thou — 
 
 A temple where angelic love might dwell. 
 Life in thy presence were a thing to keep, 
 Like a gay dreamer cUnging to his sleep. 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S WIDOW. 
 
 [a picture.] 
 
 Wo for my vine-clad home 1 
 That it should ever be so dark to me. 
 With its bright threshold^ and its whispering tree I 
 
 That I should ever come, 
 Fearing the lonely echo of a tread 
 Beneath the roof-tree of my glorious dead 1 
 
 Lead on, my orphan boy ! 
 Thy home is not so desolate to thee — 
 And the low shiver in the linden tree 
 
 May bring to thee a joy ; 
 But oh, how dark is the bright home before thee, 
 To her who with a joyous spirit bore thee 1 
 
 Lead on ! for thou art now 
 My sole remaining helper. God hath spoken, 
 And the strong heart I lean'd upon is broken ; 
 
 And I have seen his brow — 
 The forehead of my upright one, and just — 
 Trod by the hoof of battle iu the dust. 
 
258 WILLISS POEMS. 
 
 He will not meet thee there 
 Who blest thee at the eventide, my son ! 
 And when the shadows of the night steal on, 
 
 He will not call to prayer. 
 The lips that melted, giving thee to God, 
 Are in the icy keeping of the sod ! 
 
 Ay, my own boy ! thy sire 
 Is with the sleepers of the valley cast, 
 And the proud glory of my life hath pass'd, 
 
 With his high glance of fire. 
 Wo that the linden and the vine should bloom, 
 And a just man be gather'd to the tomb ! 
 
 Why — bear them proudly, boy ! 
 It is the sword he girded to his thigh — 
 It is the helm he wore in victory — 
 
 And shall we have no joy ? 
 For thy green vales, oh Switzerland, he died I — 
 I will forget my sorrow in my pride ! 
 
 STARLIGHT. 
 
 The evening star will twinkle presently. 
 The last small bird is silent, and the bee 
 Has gone into his hive, and the shut flowers 
 Are bending as if sleeping on the stem. 
 And all sweet living things are slumbering 
 In the deep hush of nature's resting time. 
 
WILLISS POEMS. 255 
 
 The faded West looks deep, as if its blue 
 
 Were searchable, and even as I look, 
 
 The twilight hath stole over it, and made 
 
 Its liquid eye apparent, and above 
 
 To the far-stretching zenith, and around, 
 
 As if they waited on her like a queen, 
 
 Have stole out the innumerable stars 
 
 To twinkle like intelligence in heaven. 
 
 Is it not beautiful, my fair Adel? 
 
 Fit for the young affections to come out 
 
 And bathe in like an element ! How well 
 
 The night is made for tenderness — so still 
 
 That the low whisper, scarcely audible, 
 
 Is heard like music, and so deeply pure 
 
 That the fond thought is chasten'd as it springs, 
 
 And on the lip made holy. I have won 
 
 Thy heart, my gentle girl ! but it hath been 
 
 When that soft eye was on me, and the love 
 
 I told beneath the evening influence 
 
 Shall be as constant as its gentle star. 
 
 OX THE DEATH OF EDWARD PAYSON, D.D. 
 
 A SERVANT of the living God is dead ! 
 His errand hath been well and early done. 
 And early hath he gone to his reward. 
 He shall come no more forth, but to his sleep 
 Hath silently lain down, and so shall rest. 
 
260 WILLIS S POEMS. 
 
 Would ye bewail our brother ? He hath gone 
 To Abraham's bosom. He shall no more thirst, 
 Nor hunger, but forever in the eye, 
 Holy and meek, of Jesus, he may look, 
 Unchided, and untempted, and unstain'd. 
 Would ye bewail our brother ? He hath gone 
 To sit down with the prophets by the clear 
 And crystal waters; he hath gone to list 
 Isaiah's harp and David's, and to walk 
 With Enoch, and Elijah, and the host 
 Of the just men made perfect. He shall bow 
 At Gabriel's hallelujah, and unfold 
 The scroll of the Apocalypse with John, 
 And talk of Christ with Mary, and go back 
 To the last supper, and the garden prayer 
 With the beloved disciple. He shall hear 
 The story of the Incarnation told 
 By Simeon, and the Triune mystery 
 Burning upon the fervent lips of Paul. 
 He shall have wings of glory, and shall soar 
 To the remoter firmaments, and read 
 The order and the harmony of stars ; 
 And, in the might of knowledge, he shall bow, 
 In the deep pauses of archangel harps, 
 And, humble as the Seraphim, shall cry — 
 Who, hy his searching ^ finds thee out, oh God! 
 
 There shall he meet his children who have gone 
 Before him, and as other years roll on, 
 And his loved flock go up to him, his hand 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 261 
 
 Again shall lead them gently to the Lamb, 
 And bring them to the living waters there. 
 
 Is it so good to die ! and shall we mourn 
 That he is taken early to his rest ? 
 Tell me 1 oh mourner for the man of God I 
 Shall we bewail our brother — that he died ? 
 
 JANUARY 1, 1828. 
 
 Fleetly hath pass'd the year. The seasons came 
 
 Duly as they are wont — the gentle Spring, 
 
 And the delicious Summer, and the cool. 
 
 Rich Autumn, with the nodding of the grain, 
 
 And Winter, like an old and hoary man, 
 
 Frosty and stiflf — and so are chronicled. 
 
 We have read gladness in the new green leaf. 
 
 And in the first-blown violets ; we have drunk 
 
 Cool water from the rock, and in the shade 
 
 Sunk to the noon- tide slumber; — we have pluck'd 
 
 The mellow fruitage of the bending tree, 
 
 And girded to our pleasant wanderings 
 
 When the cool wind came freshly from the hills; 
 
 And when the tinting of the Autumn leaves 
 
 Had faded from its glory, we have sat 
 
 By the good fires of Winter, and rejoiced 
 
 Over the fulness of the gather'd sheaf 
 
 " God hath been very good I" 'Tis he whose hand 
 
 Moulded the sunny hills, and hoUow'd out 
 
262 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 The shelter of the valleys, and doth keep 
 The fountains in their secret places cool ; 
 And it is He who leadeth up the sun, 
 And ordereth the starry influences, 
 And tempereth the keenness of the frost — 
 And therefore, in the plenty of the feast, 
 And in the lifting of the cup, let Him 
 Have praises for the well-completed year. 
 
 JANUARY 1, 1829. 
 
 Winter is come again. The sweet south-west 
 Is a forgotten wind, and the strong earth 
 Has laid aside its mantle to be bound 
 By the frost fetter. There is not a sound, 
 Save of the skater's heel, and there is laid 
 An icy finger on the lip of streams, 
 And the clear icicle hangs cold and still, 
 And the snow-fall is noiseless as a thought. 
 Spring has a rushing sound, and Summer sends 
 Many sweet voices with its odors out, 
 And Autumn rustleth its decaying robe 
 With a complaining whisper. Winter's dumb I 
 God made his ministry a silent one. 
 And he has given him a foot of steel 
 And an unlovely aspect, and a breath 
 Sharp to the senses — and we know that He 
 Tempereth well, and hath a meaning hid 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 26? 
 
 Under the shadow of His hand. Look up ; 
 And it shall be interpreted — Your home 
 Hath a temptation now I There is no voice 
 Of waters with beguiling for your ear, 
 And the cool forest and the meadows green 
 Witch not your feet away ; and in the dells 
 There are no violets, and upon the hills 
 There are no sunny places to lie down. 
 You must go in, and by your cheerful fire 
 Wait for the offices of love, and hear 
 Accents of human tenderness, and feast 
 Your eye upon the beauty of the young. 
 It is a season for the quiet thought, 
 And the still reckoning with thyself. The year 
 Gives back the spirits of its dead, and time 
 Whispers the history of its vanish'd hours ; 
 And the heart, calling its affections up, 
 Counteth its wasted ingots. Life stands still 
 And settles like a fountain, and the eye 
 Sees clearly through its depths, and noteth all 
 That stirr'd it troubled waters. It is well ^ 
 That Winter with the dying year should come I 
 
 PSYCHE, 
 
 BEFORE THE TRIBUNAL OF TEXrS. 
 
 Lift up thine eyes, sweet Psyche ! What is she, 
 That those soft fringes timidly should full 
 Before her, and thy spiritual brow 
 Be dark, as if her presence were a cloud ? 
 22 
 
264 WILLISS POEMS. 
 
 A loftier gift is thine than she can give — 
 
 That queen of beauty. She may mould the brow 
 
 To perfectne33, and give unto the form 
 
 A beautiful proportion ; she may stain 
 
 The eye with a celestial blue — the cheek 
 
 With carmine of the sunset ; she may breathe 
 
 Grace into every emotion, like the play 
 
 Of the least visible tissue of a cloud ; 
 
 She may give all that is within her own 
 
 Bright cestus — and one silent look of thine, 
 
 Like stronger magic, will outcharm it all. 
 
 Ay, for the soul is better than its frame, 
 
 The spirit than its temple. What's the brow. 
 
 Or the eye's lustre, or the step of air. 
 
 Or color, but the beautiful links that chain 
 
 The mind from its rare element ? There lies 
 
 A tahsman in intellect which yields 
 
 Celestial music, when the master hand 
 
 Touches it cunningly. It sleeps beneath 
 
 The outward semblance, and to common sight 
 
 Is an invisible and hidden thing ; 
 
 But when the lip is faded, and the cheek 
 
 Bobb'd of its daintiness, and when the form 
 
 Y/itches the sense no more, and human love 
 
 Falters in its idolatry, this spell 
 
 Will hold its strength unbroken, and go on 
 
 Stealing anew the affections. 
 
 Marvel not 
 That Love leans sadly on liis bended bow. 
 
Willis's poems. 265 
 
 He hath found out the loveliness of mind, 
 And he is spoilt for beauty. So 'twill be 
 Ever — the glory of the human form 
 Is but a perishing thing, and Love will droop 
 When its brief grace hath faded ; but the mind 
 Perisheth not, and when the outward charm 
 Hath had its brief existence, it awakes, 
 And is the lovelier that it slept so long — 
 Like wells that by the wasting of their flow 
 Have had their deeper fountains broken up. 
 
 OX SEEING A BEAUTIFUL BOY AT PLAY. 
 
 Down the green slope he bounded. Raven curls 
 
 From his white shoulders by the winds were swept, 
 
 And the clear color of his sunny cheek 
 
 "Was bright with motion. Through his open lips 
 
 Shone visibly a delicate hne of pearl, 
 
 Like a white vein within a rosy shell, 
 
 And his dark eye's clear brilliance, as it lay 
 
 Beneath his lashes, like a drop of dew 
 
 Hid in the moss, stole out as covertly 
 
 As starlight from the edging of a cloud. 
 
 I never saw a boy so beautiful. 
 
 His step was like the stooping of a bird. 
 
 And his limbs melted into grace like thing? 
 
 Shaped by the wind of summer. He was like 
 
 A painter's fine conception — such an one 
 
 As he would have of Ganymede, and weep 
 
266 Willis's poems. 
 
 Upon his pallet that he could not win 
 
 Tlie vision to his easel. Who could paint 
 
 The young and shadowless spirit ? Who could chain 
 
 The sparkling gladness of a heart that lives, 
 
 Like a glad fountain, in the eye of light, 
 
 With an unbreathing pencil ? Nature's gift 
 
 Has nothing that is like it. Sun and stream, 
 
 And the new leaves of June, and the young lark 
 
 That flees away into the depths of heaven, 
 
 Lost in his own wild music, and the breath 
 
 Of springtime, and the summer eve, and noon 
 
 In the cool autumn, are like fingers swept 
 
 Over sweet-toned affections — but the joy 
 
 That enters to the spirit of a child 
 
 Is deep as his young heart : his very breath, 
 
 The simple sense of being, is enough 
 
 To ravish him, and like a thrilling touch 
 
 He feels each moment of his life go by. 
 
 Beautiful, beautiful childhood ! with a joy 
 That like a robe is palpable, and flung 
 Out by your every motion ! delicate bud 
 Of the immortal flower that will unfold 
 And come to its maturity in heaven ! 
 I weep your eartWy glory. 'Tis a light 
 Lent to the new-born spirit, that goes out 
 Widi the first idle wind. It is the leaf 
 Fresh flung upon the river, that will danco 
 Upon the wave tliat stealeth out its life, 
 Then sink of its own heaviness. The face 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 267 
 
 Of the delightful earth will to your eye 
 Grow dim ; the fragrance of the many flowers 
 Be noticed not, and the beguiling voice 
 Of nature in her gentleness will be 
 To manhood's senseless ear inaudible. 
 I sigh to look upon thy face, young boy ! 
 
 HERO. 
 
 Claudio. Know you ary, Hero ? 
 ITero. None, my lord I 
 
 Much Ado about Notiiino. 
 
 Gentle and modest Hero ! I can see 
 Her deUcate figure, and her soft blue eye, 
 Like a warm vision — lovely as she stood, 
 Veil'd in the presence of young Claudio. 
 Modesty bows her head, and that young lieart 
 That would endure all suffering for the love 
 It hideth, is as tremulous as the leaf 
 Forsaken of the Summer. She hath flung 
 Her all upon the venture of her vow, 
 And in her trust leans meekly, like a flower 
 By the still river tempted from its stem, 
 And on its bosom floating. 
 
 Once again 
 I see her, and she standeth in her pride, 
 With her soft eye enkindled, and her lip 
 Curled with its sweet resentment, like a line 
 22* 
 
268 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 Of lifeless coral. She hath heard the voice 
 
 That was her music utter it, and still 
 
 To her affection faithful, she hath turn'd 
 
 And question'd, in her innocent unbelief, 
 
 " Is my lord well, that he should speak so wide ?' 
 
 How did they look upon that open brow, 
 
 And not read purity ? Alas for truth ! 
 
 It hath so many counterfeits". The words, 
 
 That to a child were written legibly, 
 
 Are by the wise mistaken, and when light 
 
 Hath made the brow transparent, and the face 
 
 Is like an angel's — virtue is so fair — 
 
 They read it like an over-blotted leaf, 
 
 And break the heart that wrote it. 
 
 IDLENESS. 
 
 "Idleness is sweet and sacred." 
 
 Walter Savage Landor. 
 " "When you have found a day to be idle, be idle for a day. 
 When you have met with three cups to drink, drink your three cups. 
 
 CiiiNF.sK Poet. 
 
 The rain is playing its soft pleasant tuno 
 Fitfully on the skyhght, and the shade 
 Of the fast-flying clouds across my book 
 Passes with gliding change. My merry lire 
 Sings cheerfully to itself; my musing cat 
 Purrs as she wakes from her unquiet sleep, 
 And looks into my face as if she felt, 
 
W I L L I S S POEMS. 269 
 
 Like me, the gentle influence of the rain. 
 Here have I sat since morn, reading sometimes, 
 And sometimes listening to the faster fall 
 Of the large drops, or rising with the stir 
 Of an unbidden thought, have walk'd awhile, 
 With the slow steps of indolence, my room, 
 And then sat down composedly again 
 To my quaint book of olden poetry. 
 
 It is a kind of idleness, I know : 
 
 And I am said to be an idle man — 
 
 And it is very true. I love to go 
 
 Out in the pleasant sun, and let my eye 
 
 Eest on the human faces that pass by, 
 
 Each with its gay or busy interest : 
 
 And then I muse upon their lot, and read 
 
 Many a lesson in their changeful cast. 
 
 And so grow kind of heart, as if the sight 
 
 Of human beings bred humanity. 
 
 And I am better after it, and go 
 
 More grateful to my rest, and feel a love 
 
 Stirring my heart to every living thing ; 
 
 And my low prayer has more humility, 
 
 And I sink lightlier to my dreams — and this. 
 
 'Tis very true, is only idleness 
 
 I love to go and mingle with the young 
 In the gay festal room — where every heart 
 Is beating faster than the merry tune, 
 A.nd their blue eyes arc restless, and their lips 
 
270 WILLIS S POEMS. 
 
 Parted with eager joy, and their round cheeks 
 Flush'd with the beautiful motion of the dance. 
 And I can look upon such things, and go 
 Back to my solitude, and dream bright dreams 
 For their fast coming years, and speak of them 
 Earnestly in my prayer, till I am glad 
 With a benevolent joy — and this, I know, 
 To the world's eye is only idleness ! 
 
 And when the clouds pass suddenly away, 
 
 And the blue sky is like a newer world, 
 
 And the sweet-growing things — forest and flower, 
 
 Humble and beautiful alike — are all 
 
 Breathing up odors to the very heaven — 
 
 Or when the frost has yielded to the sun 
 
 In the rich autumn, and the filmy mist 
 
 Lies like a silver lining on the sky, 
 
 And the clear air exhilarates, and life 
 
 Simply, is luxury — and when the hush 
 
 Of twilight, like a gentle sleep, steals on, 
 
 And the birds settle to their nests, and stars 
 
 Spring in the upper sky, and there is not 
 
 A sound that is not low and musical — 
 
 At all these pleasant seasons I go out 
 
 With my first impulse guiding me, and take 
 
 Wood -path or stream, or slope by hill or vale, 
 
 And in my recklessness of heart, stray on. 
 
 Glad with the birds, and silent with the leaves, 
 
 And happy with the fair and blessed world — 
 
 And this, 'tis true, is only idleness ! 
 
Willis's poems. 271 
 
 A.nd I should love to go up to the sky. 
 And course the heavens, like stars, anu float away 
 Upon the gliding clouds that have no stay 
 In their swift journey — and 'twould be a joy 
 To walk the chambers of the deep, and tread 
 The pearls of its untrodden floor, and know 
 The tribes of the unfathomable depths — 
 Dwellers beneath the pressure of a sea ! 
 And I should love to issue with the wind 
 On a strong errand, and o'ersweep the earth 
 With its broad continents and islands green. 
 Like to the passing of a spirit on 1 — 
 And this, 'tis true, were only idleness ! 
 
 THE BURIAL OF THE CHAMPION OF HIS CItASS, 
 AT YALE COLLEGE. 
 
 YeVe gather'd to your place of prayer 
 
 With slow and measured tread : 
 Your ranks are full, your mates all there — 
 
 But the soul of one has fled. 
 He was the proudest in his strength, 
 
 The manliest of ye all ; 
 Why lies he at that fearful length, 
 
 And ye around his pall ? 
 
 Ye reckon it in days, since ho 
 Strode up that foot-worn aisle, 
 
272 Willis's poems. 
 
 "With his dark eye flasliing gloriously, 
 And his lip wreathed with a smile. 
 
 0, had it been but told you, then, 
 To mark whose lamp was dim — 
 
 From out yon rank of fresh-lipp'd men, 
 Would ye have singled him ? 
 
 Whose was the sinewy arm, that flung 
 
 Defiance to the ring? 
 Whose laugh of victory loudest rung — 
 
 Yet not for glorying ? 
 Whose heart, in generous deed and thought, 
 
 No rivalry might brook, 
 And yet distinction claiming not ? 
 
 There lies he — go and look ! 
 
 On now — his requiem is done. 
 
 The last deep prayer is said — 
 On to his burial, comrades — on. 
 
 With a friend and brother dead 1 
 Slow — for it presses heavily — 
 
 It is a man ye bear ! 
 Slow, for our thoughts dwell wearily 
 
 On the gallant sleeper there. 
 
 Tread lightly, comrades ! — we have laid 
 His dark locks on his brow — 
 
 Like life — save deeper light and shade : 
 We'll not disturb them now. 
 
 Tread lightly — for 'tis beautiful, 
 That blue-vein'd eyelid's sleep. 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 273 
 
 Hiding the eye death left so dull — 
 Its slumber we will keep. 
 
 Rest now I his Journeying is done — 
 
 Your feet are on his sod — 
 Death's blow has fell'd your champion — 
 
 He waiteth here his God. 
 Ay — turn and weep — 'tis manliness 
 
 To be heart-broken here — 
 For the grave of one, the best of us, 
 
 Is water' d by the tear. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 "L'onda del mar divisa 
 Bagna la valle e Tmonte, 
 Va passeglera 
 In fill mo, 
 Va prigionera 
 In fonte, 
 Monnora sempre e geme 
 Fin clic non toina al mar." 
 
 Mbtastasio. 
 
 The Spring is here — the delicate-footed May, 
 With its slight fingers full of leaves and flowers, 
 
 And with it comes a thirst to be away, 
 
 In lovelier scenes to pass these sweeter hours, 
 
 A feeling like the worm's awakening wings, 
 
 Wild for companionship with swifter things. 
 
274 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 We pass out from the city's feverish hum. 
 
 To find refreshment in the silent woods; 
 And nature that is beautiful and dumb, 
 
 Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broods — 
 Yet, even there a restless thought will steal, 
 To teach the indolent heart it still must feel. 
 
 Strange that the audible stillness of the noon, 
 The waters tripping with their silver feet. 
 
 The turning to the light of leaves in June, 
 And the light whisper as their edges meet — 
 
 Strange — that they fill not, with their tranquil tone, 
 
 The spirit, walking in their midst alone. 
 
 There's no contentment in a world like this. 
 Save in forgetting the immortal dream ; 
 
 We may not gaze upon the stars of bliss, 
 
 That through the cloud-rifts radiantly stream i 
 
 Bird-like, the prison'd soul wiU lift its eye 
 
 And pine till it is hooded from the sky. 
 
 THIRTY -FIVE. 
 
 " The years of a man's life are three-score and ten." 
 
 Oh, weary heart! thou'rt half-way home! 
 We stand on life's meridian height — 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS, 275 
 
 As far from childhood's morning come, 
 
 As to the grave's forgetful night. 
 Give Youth and Hope a parting tear — 
 
 Look onward with a placid brow — 
 Hope promised but to bring us here, 
 
 And Reason takes the guidance now — 
 One backward look — the last — the last 1 
 One silent tear — ^for Toutli is past I 
 
 Who goes with Hope and Passion back ? 
 
 Who comes with me and Memory on? 
 Oh, lonely looks the downward track — 
 
 Joy's music hush'd — Hope's roses gone ! 
 To Pleasure and her giddy troop 
 
 Farewell, without a sigh or tear ! 
 But heart gives way, and spirits droop, 
 
 To think that love may leave us here 1 
 Have we no charm when Youth is flown— 
 Midway to death left sad and lone I 
 
 Yet stay I — as 'twere a twiUght star 
 
 That sends its thread across the wave, 
 I See a brightening light, from far, 
 
 Steal down a path beyond the grave I 
 And now — bless God ! — its golden line 
 
 Comes o'er — and lights my shadowy way- 
 And shows the dear hand clasped in mine ! 
 
 But, list what those sweet voices say I 
 
276 WILLIS'S POEMS.- 
 
 Tlie better land's in flight, 
 And, by its chastening light, i 
 
 All love from life's midway is driven, ^ 
 
 Save hers whose claspCd hand will bring thee on to heaven! 
 
 ROARING BROOK. 
 
 (a passage of scenbey nkak xew haven.) 
 
 It was a mountain stream that with the leap 
 
 Of its impatient waters had worn out 
 
 A channel in the rock, and wash'd away 
 
 The earth that had upheld the tall old trees, 
 
 Till it was darkened with the shadowy arch 
 
 Of the o'erleaning branches. Here and there 
 
 It loiter'd in a broad and limpid pool 
 
 That circled round demurely, and anon 
 
 Sprung violently over where the rock 
 
 Fell suddenly, and bore its bubbles on, 
 
 Till they were broken by the hanging moss, 
 
 As anger with a gentle word grows calm. 
 
 In spring-time, when the snows were commg down, 
 
 And in the flooding of the autumn rains, 
 
 No foot might enter there — but in the hot 
 
 And thirsty summer, when the fountains slept 
 
 You could go up its channel in the shade, 
 
 To the far sources, with a brow as cool 
 
WILLISS POEMS. 277 
 
 As in the grotto of the anchorite. 
 
 Here when an idle student have I come, 
 
 And in a hollow of the rock lain down 
 
 And mused until the eventide, or read 
 
 Some fine old poet till my nook became 
 
 A haunt of faery, or the busy flow 
 
 Of water to my spell-bewilder'd ear 
 
 Seem'd like the din of some gay tournament. 
 
 Pleasant have been such hours, and though the wise 
 
 Have said that I was indolent, and they 
 
 Who taught me have reproved me that I play'd 
 
 The truant in the leafy month of June, 
 
 I deem it true philosophy in him 
 
 Whose path leads to the rude and busy world, 
 
 To loiter with these wayside comforters. 
 
 AN APOLOGY 
 
 FOE AVOIDING, AFTER LONG SEPAKATION, A WOMAN ONCE LOVED. 
 
 See me no more on earth, I pray ; 
 
 Thy picture, in my memory now, 
 Is fair as morn, and fresh as May ! 
 
 Few were as beautiful as thou ! 
 And still I see that willowy form — 
 
 And still that cheek like roses dyed — 
 And still that dark eye, deep and warm^ 
 
 Thy look of love — thy step of pride ! — • 
 Thy memory is a star to me, 
 More bright as day-beams fade and flee. 
 
278 • WILLIS S POEMS. 
 
 But thou, indeed ! — Ah 1 years have fled, 
 
 And thou, like others, changed the while — 
 For joy upon the Up lies dead 
 
 If pain but cloud the sunny smile ! 
 And care will make the roses pale, 
 
 And tears will soil the lily's whiteness, 
 Anc' ere life's lamp begins to fail 
 
 I'he eye forgets its trick of brightness I 
 Look for the dew of morn at noon. 
 And weep for beauty lost as soon ! 
 
 Cold words that hide the envious thought I 
 
 I could not bear thy face to see — 
 But oh, 'tis not that time has wrought 
 
 A change in features dear to me ! 
 No ! had it been my lot to share 
 
 The fragrance of the flower decay'd — 
 If I had borne but half the care 
 
 That on thy brow its burden laid — 
 If in my love thou'dst burn'd away, 
 The ashes still had warm'd the heart so cold to-day ! 
 
 TO HELEN IN A HUFF. 
 
 Nay, lady, one frown is enough 
 In a life as soon over as this — 
 
 And though minutes seem long in a huff. 
 They're minutes 'tis pity to miss ! 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 279 
 
 The smiles you imprison so lightly 
 
 Are reckon'd, hke days in ecUpse ; 
 And though you may smile again brightly, 
 
 You've lost so much light from your lips ! 
 Pray, lady, smile ! 
 
 The cup that is longest untasted 
 
 May be with our bliss running o'er, 
 And, love when we will, we have wasted 
 
 An age in not loving before ! 
 Perchance Cupid's forging a fetter 
 
 To tie us together some day, 
 And, just for the chance, we had better 
 
 Be laying up love, I should say ! 
 Nay, lady, smile ! 
 
 CITY LYRICS. 
 
 Argument. — The poet starts from the Bowling Green to take his 
 sweetheart up to Thompson's for an ice, or (if she is inclined for more) 
 ices. He confines his muse to matters which any every-day man and 
 young woman may see in taking the same promenade for the same 
 innocent refreshment. 
 
 Come ouf, love — the night is enchanting 1 
 The moon hangs just over Broadway ; 
 
 The stars are all lighted and panting — 
 (Hot weatlier up there, I dare say I) 
 
 'Tis seldom that " coolness" entices, 
 And love is no better for chilling — 
 28* 
 
280 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 But come up to Thompson's for ices, 
 
 And cool your warm heart for a shilling I 
 
 "What perfume comes balmily o'er us ? 
 
 Mint juleps from City Hotel ! 
 A loafer is smoking before us — 
 
 (A nasty cigar, by the smell !) 
 Oh Woman 1 thou secret past knowing I 
 
 Like lilachs that grow by the wall, 
 You breathe every air that is going, 
 
 Yet gather but sweetness from all ! 
 
 On, on ! by St. Paul's, and the Astor I 
 
 Religion seems very ill-plann'd ! 
 For one day we list to the pastor, 
 
 For six days we list to the band I 
 The sermon may dwell on the future, 
 
 The organ your pulses may calm — 
 When — pest! — that remember'd cachucha 
 
 Upsets both the sermon and psalm ! 
 
 Oh, pity the love that must utter 
 
 While goes a swift omnibus by ! 
 (Though sweet is I scream^ when the flutter 
 
 Of fans shows thermometers high) — 
 But if what I bawl, or I mutter, 
 
 Falls into your ear but to die. 
 Oh, the dew that falls into the gutter 
 
 Is not more unhappy than I ! 
 
 • Query. — Should this be Ice cream, or I scream t — Puintkb's 
 Devil. 
 
WILLIS S POEMS. 281 
 
 TO THE LADY IN THE CHEMISETTE WITH BLACK 
 BUTTONS. 
 
 I KNOW not who thou art, oh lovely one 1 
 
 Thine eyes were droop'd, thy lips half sorrowful — 
 
 Tet thou didst eloquently smile on me 
 
 While handling up thy sixpence through the hole 
 
 Of that o'er-freighted omnibus 1 Ah me ! 
 
 The world is full of meetings such as this — 
 
 A thrill, a voiceless challenge and reply — 
 
 And sudden partings after ! We may pass, 
 
 And know not of each other's nearness now — 
 
 Thou in the Knickerbocker Line, and I, 
 
 Lone, in the Waverley ! Oh, life of pain ! 
 
 And even should I pass where thou dost dwell — 
 
 Nay — see thee in the basement taking tea — 
 
 So cold is this inexorable world, 
 
 I must glide on ! I dare not feast mine eye I 
 
 I dare not make articulate my love, 
 
 Nor o'er the iron rails that hem thee in 
 
 Venture to fling to thee my innocent card — 
 
 Not knowing thy papa ! 
 
 Hast thou papa ? 
 Is thy progenitor alive, fair girl ? 
 And what doth he for lucre ? Lo again ! 
 A shadow o'er the face of this fair dream I 
 For thou mayst be as beautiful as Love 
 Can make thee, and the ministering hands 
 Of milliners, incapable of more, 
 
282 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 Be lifted at thy shapeliness and air, 
 
 And still 'twixt me and thee, invisibly. 
 
 May rise a wall of adamant. My breath 
 
 Upon my pale lip freezes as I name 
 
 Manhattan's orient verge, and eke the vrest 
 
 In its far dow^n extremity. Thy sire 
 
 May be the signer of a temperance pledge, 
 
 And clad all decently may walk the earth — 
 
 Nay — may be number'd with that blessed few 
 
 Who never ask for discount — yet, alas ! 
 
 If, homeward wending from his daily cares, 
 
 He go by Murphy's Line, thence eastward tending 
 
 Or westward from the Line of Kipp & Brown, — 
 
 My vision is departed 1 Harshly falls 
 
 The doom upon the ear, "She's not genteel!" 
 
 And pitiless is woman who doth keep 
 
 Of " good society" the golden key ! 
 
 And gentlemen are bound, as are the star-i. 
 
 To stoop not after rising 1 
 
 But farewell, 
 And I shall look for thee in streets where dwel 
 The passengers by Broadway Lines alone ! 
 And if my dreams be true, and thou, indeed. 
 Art only not more lovely than genteel — 
 Then, lady of the snow-white chemisette, 
 The heait which vent'rously cross'd o'er to theo 
 Upon that bridge of sixpence, may remain — 
 And, with up-town devotedness and truth, 
 My love shall hover round thee ! 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 283 
 
 IHE LADY U THE WHITE DRESS, WHOH I HELPED 
 INTO THE OMNIBUS. 
 
 I KNOW her not ! Her hand has been in mine, 
 
 And the warm pressure of her taper arm 
 
 Has thrill'd upon my fingerf^, and the hem 
 
 Of her white dress iias Iain upon my feet 
 
 Till my hush'd pulse, by the caressing folds, 
 
 Was kindled to a fever 1 I, to her, 
 
 Am but the undistinguishable leaf 
 
 Blown by upon the breeze — yet I have sat, 
 
 And in the blue depths of her stainless eye?, 
 
 (Close as a lover in his hour of bliss, 
 
 And steadfastly as look the twin stars down 
 
 Into unfathomable wells,) have gazed ! 
 
 And I have felt from out its gate of pearl 
 
 Her warm breath on my cheek, and while she sat 
 
 Dreaming away the moments, I have tried 
 
 To count the long dark lashes in the fringe 
 
 Of her bewildering eyes I The kerchief sweet 
 
 That enviably visits her red lip 
 
 Has slumber'd, while she held it, on my knee, — 
 
 And her small foot has crept between mine own— 
 
 And yet, she knows me not ! 
 
 Now, thanks to heaven 
 For blessings chainless in the rich man's kee[)ing — 
 Wealth that the miser cannot hide away ! 
 Buy, if they will, the invaluable flower — 
 Thev cannot store its fragrance from the breeze 1 
 
284 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 Wear, if they will, the costliest gem of Ind — 
 It pours its light on every passing eye ! 
 And he who on this beauty sets his name — 
 Who dreams, perhaps, that for his use alone 
 Such loveliness was first of angels born — 
 Tell him, oh whisperer at his dreaming ear, 
 That I too, in her beauty, sun my eye, 
 • And, unrebuked, may worship her in song — 
 Tell him that heaven, along our darkling way, 
 Hath set bright lamps with loveliness alight — 
 And all may in their guiding beams rejoice ; 
 But he — as 'twere a watcher by a lamp — 
 Guards but this brigfht one's shining 
 
 THE WHITE CHIP HAT. 
 
 I pass'd her one day in a hurry. 
 
 When late for the Post with a letter- 
 I think near the corner of Murray — 
 
 And up rose my heart as I met her 1 
 I ne'er saw a parasol handled 
 
 So like to a dutchess's doing — 
 I ne'er saw a slighter foot sandall'd, 
 
 Or so fit to exhale in the shoeing- — 
 Lovely thing ! 
 
 Surprising ! — one woman can dish us 
 So many rare sweets up together ! 
 
Willis's poems. 285 
 
 Tournure absolutely delicious — 
 
 Chip hat without flower or feather 
 
 Well-gloved and enchaatingly boddiced 
 Her waist like the cup of a lily — 
 
 And an air, that, while daintily modest, 
 Repell'd both the saucy and silly — 
 Quite the thing ! 
 
 For such a rare wonder you'll say, sir, 
 
 There's reason in straiuing one's tether — 
 And, to see her again in Broadway, sir, 
 
 Who would not be lavish of leather I 
 I met her again, and as you know 
 
 I'm sage as old Voltaire at Ferney — 
 But I said a bad word — for my Juno 
 
 Look'd sweet on a sneaking attorney — 
 Horrid thing I 
 
 Away flies the dream I had nourish' d — 
 
 My castles like mockery fall, sir ! 
 And, now, the fine airs that she flourish'd 
 
 Seem varnish and crockery all, sir ! 
 The bright cup which angels might handle 
 
 Turns earthly when finger'd by asses — 
 And the star that " swaps" light with a candle, 
 
 Thenceforth for a pennyworth passes ! — 
 Not the thimr! 
 
286 WILLIS'S POEMS 
 
 YOU KNOW IF IT WAS YOU. 
 
 As^the cbill'd robin, bound to Florida 
 Upon a morn of autumn, crosses flying 
 The air-track of a snipe most passing fair — 
 Yet colder in her blood than she is fair — 
 And as that robin lingers on the wing, 
 And feels the snipe's flight in the eddying air, 
 And loves her for her coldness not the less — • 
 But fain would win her to that warmer sky 
 Where love lies waking with the fragrant stars- 
 So I — a languisher for sunnier climes, 
 Where fruit, leaf, blossom, on the trees forever 
 Image the tropic deathlessness of love — 
 Have met, and long'd to win thee, fairest lady, 
 To a more genial clime than cold Broadway! 
 
 Tranquil and effortless thou glidest on. 
 As doth the swan upon the yielding water, 
 And with a cheek like alabaster cold I 
 But as thou didst divide the amorous air 
 Just opposite the Astor, and didst lift 
 That veil of languid lashes to look in 
 At Leary's tempting window — lady ! then 
 My heart sprang in beneath that fringed veil, 
 Like an adventurous bird that would escape 
 To some warm chamber from the outer cold 1 
 And there would I delig'htedly remain, 
 And close that frinsred window with a kiss, 
 
WILLIS S POEMS. 287 
 
 And in the warm sweet chamber of thy breast, 
 Be prisoner forever 1 
 
 LOVE IN A COTTAGE. 
 
 They may talk of love in a cottage, 
 
 And bowers of trellised vine — 
 Of nature bewitchingly simple, 
 
 And milkmaids half divine ; 
 They may talk of the pleasure of sleeping 
 
 In the shade of a spreading tree, 
 Ami a walk in the fields at morning, 
 
 By the side of a footstep free I 
 
 But give me a sly flirtation 
 By the light of a chandelier — 
 
 "With music to play in the pauses, 
 And nobody very near ; 
 
 Or a seat on a silken sofa. 
 With a glass of pure old wine. 
 
 And mamma too blind to discover 
 The small white hand in mine. 
 
 Your love in a cottage is hungry, 
 Your vine is a nest for flies — 
 
 Your milkmaid shocks the Graces, 
 And simplicity talks of pies ! 
 
 You lie down to your shady slumber 
 And wake with a bug in your ear, 
 24 
 
288 W I L L 1 S S POEMS. 
 
 And your damsel that walks in the morning 
 Is shod like a mountaineer. 
 
 True love is at home on a carpet, 
 
 And mightily likes his ease — 
 And true love has an eye for a dinner, 
 
 And starves beneath shady trees. 
 His wing is the fan of a lady, 
 
 His foot's an invisible thing, 
 And his arrow is tipp'd with a jewel 
 
 And shot from a silver string-. 
 
 THE DECLARATION. 
 
 'TwAS late, and the gay company was gone, 
 "And light lay soft on the deserted room 
 From alabaster vases, and a scent 
 Of orange leaves, and sweet verbena came 
 Through the unshutter'd window on the air, 
 And the rich pictures with their dark old tints 
 Hung like a twilight landscape, and all things 
 Seem'd hush'd mto a slumber. Isabel, 
 The dark-eyed, spiritual Isabel 
 Was leaning on her harp, and I had stay'd 
 To whisper what I could not when the crowd 
 Hung on her look like worshippers. I knelt, 
 And with a fervor of a lip unused 
 To the cool breath of reason, told my love. 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 289 
 
 There was no answer, and I took the hand 
 That rested on the strings, and press'd a kiss 
 Upon it unforbidden — and again 
 Besought her, that this silent evidence 
 That I was not indiflferent to her heart. 
 Might have the seal of one sweet syllable. 
 I kiss'd the small white fingers as I spoke, 
 And she withdrew them gently, and upraised 
 Her forehead from its resting-place, and look'd 
 Earnestly on me — She had been asleep I 
 
 POEM 
 
 DELIVERED AT BROWN UNIVERSITY, SEPT. 6, 1831. 
 
 If, in the eyes that rest upon me now, 
 I see the light of an immortal fire — 
 If, in the awe of concentrated thought. 
 The solemn presence of a multitude 
 Breathing together, the instinctive mind 
 Acknowledges aright a type of God — 
 Then is the ruling spirit of this hour 
 Compell'd from Heaven ; and if the soaring minds 
 Usher'd this day upon an untiied flight 
 Stoop not their courses, we are met to cheer 
 Spirits of light sprung freshly on their way. 
 
 But, what a mystery — this erring mind ? 
 It wakes within a fiame of various powers 
 
290 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 A stranger in a new and wondrous world. 
 It brings an instinct from some other sphere, 
 For its fine senses are familiar all, 
 And, with the unconscious habit of a dream, 
 It calls, and they obey. The priceless sight 
 Springs to its curious organ, and the ear 
 Learns strangely to detect th' articulate air 
 In its unseen divisions, and the tongue 
 Gets its miraculous lesson with the rest, 
 And in the midst of an obedient throng 
 Of well-trained ministers, the mind goes forth 
 To search the secrets of a new-found home. 
 
 Its infancy is full of hope and joy. 
 Knowledge is sweet, and Nature is a nurse 
 Gentle and holy ; and the light and air 
 And all things common, warm it like the sun, 
 And ripen the eternal seed within. 
 And so its youth glides on ; and still it seems 
 A heavenward spirit, straying oftentimes. 
 But never widely ; and if Death might come 
 And ravish it from earth, as it is now, 
 We could almost beheve that it would mount, 
 Spotless and radiant, from the very grave. 
 But manhood comes, and in its bosom sits 
 Another spirit. Stranger as it seems, 
 It is familiar there, for it has grown 
 In the unsearch'd recesses all unseen, — 
 Or if its shadow darken'd the bright doors, 
 'Twas smile 1 upon and gently driven in; 
 
POEMS. 291 
 
 And as the spider and tho honcy-bcc 
 Teed on the same bright fiowers, this mocking soul 
 Ped with its purer brother, and grew strong, 
 Till now, in semblance of the soul itself, 
 With its own mien and sceptre, and a voice 
 Sweet as an angel's and as full of power. 
 It sits, a bold usurper on the throne. 
 What is its nature ? 'Tis a child of clay, 
 And born of human passions. In its train 
 Follow all things unholy — Love of Gold, 
 Ambition, Pleasure, Pride of place or name. 
 All that we worship for itself alone, 
 All that we may not carry through the grave. 
 We have made idols of these perishing things 
 Till they have grown time-honor'd on their shrines, 
 And all men bow to them. Yet what are they? 
 What is Ambition? 'Tis a glorious cheat! 
 Angels of light walk not so dazzlingly 
 The sapphire walls of Heaven. The unsearch'd mine 
 Hath not such gems. Earth's constellated thrones 
 Have not such pomp of purple and of gold, 
 it hath no features. In its face is set 
 A mirror, and the gazer sees his own. 
 It looks a God, but it is like himself I 
 It liath a mien majestical, and smiles 
 Bewilderingly sweet — but how like him I 
 It follows not with fortune. It is seen 
 Rarely or never in the rich man's hall. 
 It seeks tne chamber of tlie gifted boy, 
 And lif^s his humble window, and comes in. 
 24* 
 
292 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 The narrow walls expand, and spread awaj" 
 Into a kingly palace, and the roof 
 Lifts to the sky, and unseen fingers work 
 The ceilings with rich blazonry, and write 
 His name in burning letters over all. 
 And ever, as he shuts his 'wilder'd eyes. 
 The phantom comes and lays upon his lids 
 A spell that murders sleep, and in his ear 
 Whispers a deatliless word, and on his brain 
 Breathes a fierce thirst no water will allay. 
 He is its slave henceforth ! His days are spent 
 In chaining down his heart, and watching where 
 To rise by human weaknesses. Plis nights 
 Bring him no rest in all their blessed hours. 
 His kindred are forgotten or estranged. 
 Unhealthful fires burn constant in his eye. 
 His lip grows restless, and its smile is curl'd 
 Half into scorn — till the bright, fiery boy, 
 That was a daily blessing but to see, 
 His spirit was so bird-like and so pure, 
 Is frozen, in the very flush of youth. 
 Into a cold, care-fretted, heartless man ! 
 
 And what is its reward ? At best, a name 1 
 Praise — when the ear has grown too dull to hear , 
 Gold — when the senses it should please aie dead; 
 ATreaths — when the hair they cover has grown gray; 
 Tame — when the heart it should have thrill'd is numb; 
 All things but love — when love is all we want ; 
 And close behinj comes 'Death, and ere we know 
 
^VILLIS'S POEMS, 2^f 
 
 That ev'n these unavailing gifts are ours, 
 
 He sends us, stripp'd and naked, to the grave ' 
 
 Is it its own reward ? Reply to it, 
 Every aspiring heart within these walls* 
 Summon the shadows of those bitter hours 
 Wasted in brooding or neglect ! Recall 
 The burning tears wrung from a throbbing bram 
 By a proud effort foil'd ; and after all 
 These agonies are number'd, rack your heart 
 Back to its own self-nurtured wretchedness. 
 And when the pangs are crowded into one 
 Of all life's scorpion-stings, and Death itself 
 Is sent or stay'd, as it would bless or curse, 
 Tell me if self-misgiving torture not 
 Unutterably more 1 
 
 Yet this is all ! 
 The world has no such glorious phantom else. 
 The spirit that could slave itself to Gold 
 Hath never drunk of knowledge at the well. 
 And Pleasure, if the senses would expand 
 And multiply with using, might delude 
 The flesh-imprison'd fancy — but not long. 
 And earthly Love — if measured, is too tame — 
 And if it drink, as in proud hearts it will, 
 At the deep springs of life, is but a cloud 
 Brooding with nameless sorrow on the soul- 
 A sadness — a sick-heartedncSi — a tear ! 
 
294 Willis's poems. 
 
 And these are the high idols of this world! 
 Retreating shadows caugiit but at the grave — 
 Mocking delusions, changing at the touch — 
 Of one false spirit the false children all. 
 And yet, what godlike gilts neglected lie 
 Wasting and raarr'd in the forgotten soul ! 
 The finest workmanship of God is there. 
 'Tis fleeter than the wings of light and wind; 
 'Tis subtler than the rarest shape of air ; 
 Fire and wind and water do its will ; 
 Earth hath no secret from its delicate eye ; 
 The air no alchymy it solveth not ; 
 The star-writ heavens are read and understood. 
 And every sparry mineral hath a name, 
 And truth is recognised, and beauty felt, 
 And God's own image stamp'd upon its brow. 
 
 How is it so forgotten ? Will it live 
 "When the great firmament is roU'd away ? 
 Math it a voice forever audible, 
 "I AM eternal!" Can it overcome 
 This mocking passion-fiend, and even here 
 Live like a seraph upon truth and light ? 
 
 Ho-w can we ever be the slaves we are, 
 With a sweet angel sitting in our breasts I 
 How can we creep so lowly, when our wings 
 Tremble and plead for freedom ! Look at him 
 Who reads aright the image on his soul, 
 And gives it nurture like a child of light. 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 59& 
 
 His life is calm and blessed, for his peace, 
 Like a rich pearl beyond the diver's ken, 
 Lies deep in his own bosom. He is pure, 
 For the soul's errands are not done with men. 
 His senses are subdued and serve the soul. 
 He feels no void, for every faculty 
 Is used, and the fine balance of desire 
 Is perfect, and strains evenly, and on. 
 Content dwells with him, for his mind is fed. 
 And Temperance has driven out unrest. 
 He heaps no gold. It cannot buy him more 
 Of any thing he needs. The air of heaven 
 Visits no freshlier the rich man's brow ; 
 He has his portion of each silver star 
 Sent to his eye as freely, and the light 
 Of the blest sun pours on his book as clear 
 As on the golden missal of a king. 
 The spicy flowers are free to him ; the sward, 
 And tender moss, and matted forest leaves 
 Are as elastic to his weary feet ; 
 The pictures in the fountains, and beneath 
 The spreading trees, fine pencillings of light, 
 Stay while he gazes on them ; the bright birds 
 Know not that he is poor ; and as he comes 
 From his low roof at morn, up goes the lark 
 Mounting and singing to the gate of Heaven, 
 And merrily away the little brook 
 Trips with its feet of silver, and a voice, 
 Almost articulate, of perfect joy. 
 Air to his forehead, water to his lips, 
 
296 WILLIS'S POiiMS. 
 
 Heat to his blood, come just as faithfully, 
 And his own faculties as freely play. 
 Love fills his voice with music, and the tear 
 Springs at as hght a bidding to his eye ; 
 And his free limbs obey him, and his sight 
 Flies on its wondrous errands everywhere. 
 
 What does he need ? Next to the Avorks of God 
 His friends are the rapt sages of old time ; 
 And they impart their wisdom to his soul 
 In lavish fulness, when and where he will. 
 He sits in his mean dwelling and communes 
 With Socrates and Plato, and the shades 
 Of all great men and holy, and the words 
 Written in fire by Milton, and the King 
 Of Israel, and the troop of glorious bards, 
 Ravish and steal his soul up to the sky — 
 And what is it to him, if these come in 
 And visit him, that at his humble door 
 There are no pillars with rich capitals 
 And walls of curious workmanship within? 
 
 I stand not here in Wisdom's sacred stole. 
 My lips have not been touch'd with holy fire. 
 An humbler office than a counsellor 
 Of human duties, and an humbler place. 
 Would better grace my knowledge and my years, 
 I would not seem presuming. Yet have I 
 Mingled a little in this earnest world. 
 And staked upon its chances, and have learn'd 
 
WILHS3 POEMS 2'Ji 
 
 Trnthcfhat I never gather'd from my books. 
 And though the lessons they have taught me seem 
 Things of the wayside to the practised man, 
 It is a wisdom by much wandering learn' d ; 
 And if but one young spirit bend its wing 
 More in the eye of Heaven, because it knew 
 The erring courses that bewilder'd mine, 
 I have not suffer'd nor shall teach in vain. 
 
 It is a lesson oftener learn'd than loved — 
 All knowledge is not nourishment. The mind 
 May pine upon its food. In reckless thirst 
 The scholar sometimes kneels beside the stream 
 Polluted by the lepers of the mind. 
 The skeptic, with his doubts of all things good 
 And faith in all things evil, has been there , 
 And, as the stream was mingled, he has strown 
 The shore with all bright flowers to tempt the ej% 
 And sloped the banks down gently for the feet , 
 And Genius, like a fallen child of light. 
 Has fill'd the place with magic, and compell'd 
 Most beautiful creations into forms 
 And images of license, and they come 
 And tempt you with bewildering grace to kneel 
 And drink of the wild waters ; and behind 
 Stand the strong Passions, pleading to go in , 
 And the approving world looks silent on ; 
 Till the pleased mind conspires against itself, 
 And finds a subtle reason why 'tis good. 
 We are deceived, though, even as we drink, 
 
2fl8 WILLISS POEMo, 
 
 We taste the evil. In his sweetest tone 
 
 The lying Tempter whispers in our ear, 
 
 •' Though it may stain, 'twill strengthen your proud wings , 
 
 A.nd in the wild ambition of the soul 
 
 We drink anew, and dream like Lucifer 
 
 To mount upon our daring draught to Heaven. 
 
 I need not follow the similitude. 
 Truth is vitality, and if the mind 
 Be fed on poison, it must lose its power. 
 The vision that forever strains to err, 
 Soon finds its task a habit ; and the tasta 
 That will own nothing true or beautiful 
 Soon finds the world distorted as itself; 
 And the loose mind, that feeds an appetite 
 For the enticements of licentious thought, 
 Contracts a leprosy that oversteals 
 Its senses, like a palsy, chill, and fast. 
 
 Another lesson with my manhood came. 
 1 have unlearn'd contempt. It is the sin 
 That is engender'd earliest in the soul. 
 And doth beset it like a poison- worm, 
 Feeding on all its beauty. As it steals 
 Into the bosom, you may see the light 
 Of the clear, heavenly eye grow cold and dim. 
 And the fine, upright glory of the brow 
 Cloud with mistrust, and the unfetter'd lip, 
 That was as free and changeful as the wind — 
 "JGven in sadness redolent of love — 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 2W 
 
 Curl'd with the iciness of a constant scorn. 
 It eats into the mind till it pollutes 
 All its pure fountains. Feeling, reason, taste 
 Breathe of its chill corruption. Every sense 
 That could convey a pleasure is benumb'd, 
 And the bright human being, that was made 
 Full of all warm affections, and with power 
 To look through all things lovely up to God, 
 Is changed into a cold and doubting fiend. 
 With but one use for reason — to despise ! 
 
 Oh, if there is one law above the rest 
 Written in reason — if there is a word 
 That I would trace as with a pen of fire 
 Upon the unsunn'd temper of a child — 
 If there is any thing that keeps the mind 
 Open to angel visits, and repels 
 The ministry of ill — 'tis human love ! 
 God has made nothing worthy of contempt. 
 The smallest pebble in the well of truth 
 Has its peculiar meaning, and will stand 
 When man's best monuments have p.iss'd away. 
 The law of heaven is love ; and though its name 
 Has been usurped by passion, and profaned 
 To its unholy uses through all time, 
 Still, the eternal principle is pure ; 
 And in these deep affections that we feel 
 Omnipotent within us, we but see 
 The lavish measure in which love is given-, 
 And in the yearning tenderness of a child 
 25 
 
aOO Willis's poems. 
 
 For every bird that sings above his head, 
 And every creature feeding on the hills, 
 And every tree, and flower, and running brook, 
 We see how every thing was made to love. 
 And how they err, who, in a world like this, 
 Find any thing to hate but human pride ! 
 
 Oh, if we are not bitterly deceived — 
 If this familiar spirit that communes 
 With yours this hour — that has the power to search 
 All things but its own compass — is a spark 
 Struck from the burning essence of its God — 
 If, as we dream, in every radiant star 
 We see a shining gate through which the soul, 
 In its degrees of being, will ascend — 
 If, when these weary organs drop away. 
 We shall forget their uses, and commune 
 With angels and each other, as the stars 
 Mingle their light, in silence and in love — 
 What is this fleshly fetter of a day 
 That we should bind it with immortal flowers I 
 How do we ever gaze upon the sky, 
 And watch the lark soar up till he is lost, 
 And turn to our poor perishing dreams away, 
 Without one tear for our imprison'd wings ! 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 801 
 
 BIRTHDAY XN A FOREIGN ISLE. 
 
 'Tis the day my mother bore her son ! 
 She has thought since morn of her absent on© 
 At break of day she remeraber'd me 
 With trembling hp and bended knee ; 
 And, at the hour of morning prayer, 
 She has fix'd her eye on the empty chair; 
 And, as my father bow'd to pray. 
 For one much loved and far away. 
 My mother's heart was stirr'd anew, 
 And tears have gush'd her fingers through; 
 And with moving hps and low-bent head, 
 Her soul to heaven has melting fled. 
 
 Mother ! dear mother 1 I've wander'd long, 
 And must wander still, in these lands of song. 
 My cheek is burnt with eastern suns ; 
 My boyish blood more tamely runs : 
 My speech is cold, my bosom seal'd ; 
 My once free nature check' d and steel'd ; 
 I have found the world so unlike thee ; 
 I have been so forced a rock to be ; 
 It has froze my heart ! — of my mother only, 
 When the hours are sad, in places lonely — 
 Only of thee — does a tlioiight go by 
 That leaves a tear in my weary eye : 
 I sec thy smile in the clouded air ; 
 I feel thy hand in my wind-slirr'd hair ; 
 
502 Willis's POEit, . 
 
 _ hear thy voice, with its pleading tOii3, 
 When else I had felt in the world alone-— 
 So alone, that there seem'd to be 
 Only my mother 'twixt heaven and me I 
 
 Mother ! dear mother ! the feeling nurst 
 As I hung at thy bosom, clung round thee first, 
 'Twas the earliest link in love's warm chain; 
 'Tis the only one that will long remain ; 
 And as, year by year, and day by day, 
 Some friend still trusted drops away. 
 Mother I dear mother ! oh, dost thou see 
 How the shorten'd chain brings me nearer mee 
 Malta, Jan. 20, 1834. 
 
 rO A BRIDE. 
 
 [MRS. WILLIAM Fc O .] 
 
 Pass thou on ! for the vow is said 
 That may ne'er be broken ; 
 
 The trembling hand hath a blessing laid 
 
 On snowy forehead and auburn braid. 
 And the word is spcken 
 
 By lips that never their word betray 'd. 
 
 Pass thou on ! for thy human all 
 
 Is richly given, 
 And the voice that claims its holy thrall 
 Must be sweeter for life than music's fall, 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS 303 
 
 And, this side heaven, 
 Thy bp may never that trust recall. 
 
 Pass thou on ! yet many an eye 
 
 Will droop and ghsten ; 
 J* nd the hushing heart in vain will try 
 To still its pulse as thy step goes by, 
 
 And we vainly listen 
 For thy voice of witching melody. 
 
 Pass thou on ! yet a sister's tone 
 
 In its sweetness lingers, 
 Like some twin echo sent back alone, 
 Or the bird's soft note when its mate hath flown f 
 
 And a sister's fingers 
 Will again o'er the thrilling harp be thrown. 
 
 And our eyes will rest on their foreheads fair, 
 
 And our hearts awaken 
 Whenever we come where their voices are — - 
 But oh, we shall think how musical were, 
 
 Ere of thee forsaken. 
 The mingled voices we listed there. 
 
 THE BROKEN BRACELET. 
 
 'TvvAS broken in the gliding dance. 
 
 When thou wert in thy dream of power, 
 
 When lip and motion, smile and glance 
 Ware lovely all — the belle's bright hour. 
 25* 
 
304 Willis's poems. 
 
 The light lay soft upon thy brow, 
 
 The music melted in thine ear, 
 And one, perchance forgotten now, 
 
 With 'wilder'd thoughts, stood musing near, 
 Marvelling not that links of gold 
 A pulse like thine had not controlfd. 
 
 'Tis midnight now — the dancers gone — 
 
 And thou in thy rich dreams asleep ; 
 And I, awake, am gazing on 
 
 The fragments given me to keep. 
 I think of every glowing vein 
 
 That ran beneath these hnks of gold. 
 And wonder if a thrill of pain 
 
 Made those bright channels ever cold. 
 With gifts like thine, I cannot thmk 
 
 Grief ever chill'd this broken link. 
 
 Good night! 'tis little now to thee 
 
 That in my ear thy words were spoken, 
 And thou will think of them, and me. 
 
 As long as of the bracelet broken. 
 And thus is riven many a chain 
 
 That thou hast fasten'd but to break. 
 And thus thou'lt sink to sleep again, 
 
 As careless if another wake; 
 The only thought thy heart can rend 
 Is — what tlieftllow 'II charge to mend. 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 305 
 
 TO A COQUETTE. 
 
 Exquisite Laura ! with tLj pouting lip 
 
 And the arch smile that makes me constant io, 
 Tempting me still, Uke a dull bee, to sip 
 
 The flower I should have left so long ago- 
 Beautiful Laura I who art just so fair 
 
 That I can think thee loveliest when alone, 
 And still art not so wonderfully rare 
 
 That I could never find a prettier one — 
 Fetterless Laura ! laughing, sighing, crying, 
 
 In the same breath, and gravest with the gay 
 So wild that Cupid ever shoots thee flying^ 
 
 And knows his archery is thrown away — 
 Inconstant as I am, I cannot yet 
 Break thy sweet chain, oh merciless coquette i 
 
 TO JULIA GRISI, 
 
 ABTEK HEARING HER IN "ANNA BO LENA.' 
 
 When the rose is brightest. 
 
 Its bloom will soonest die ; 
 When burns the meteor brightest, 
 
 'Twill vanish from the sky. 
 If Death but wait until delight 
 
 O'errun the heart, like wine, 
 And break the cup when brimming quite, 
 I die — for thou hast pour'd to-night 
 
 The last drop into mine. 
 
306 V,' I L L I S S POEMS 
 
 THE TABLE OF EMERALD. 
 
 "Deep, it is said, ^:ider yonder pyramid, has for ages lain concealed 
 the Table of Emerald, on which the thrice-great Hermes engraved, 
 before the flood, the secret of alchymy that gives gold at will.'" 
 
 Moore's Epicubejln. 
 
 That Emerald vast of the Pyramid — 
 
 Were I where it is laid, 
 I would ask no king for his heavy crown 
 
 A.S its mystic words were said. 
 The pomp of wealth, the show of power. 
 
 Id vain for me would shine, 
 And naught that brings the mind a care 
 
 Would win bright gold of mine. 
 
 Would I feast all day — revel all night — 
 
 Laugh with a secret sadness ? 
 Would I sleep away the breezy morn 
 
 And wake to the goblet's madness ? 
 Would I spend no time and no golden ore 
 
 J^'or the wisdom that sages knew ? 
 Would I run to waste with a human mind, 
 
 To its holy trust untrue ? 
 
 Oh knew I the depth of that Emerald spell, 
 
 And had I the gold it brings, 
 I would never load with a feaster's joy 
 
 My spirit's mounting wings. 
 
\T I L L I S 3 P O E M S . 30^ 
 
 I would bind no wreath to my brow to-day 
 That would leave a stain to-morrow 
 
 Nor drink a draught of joy to-night 
 
 That would change with morn to sorrow. 
 
 But oh ! I would burst this chain of forms, 
 
 And be spirit and fancy-free ; 
 For costly aid to my mind alone 
 
 Should my gold be scatter'd free. 
 I would place my foot on my heaps of ore 
 
 To mount to Wisdom's throne, 
 And buy, with the wealth of an Indian mine, 
 
 To be left, of care, alone. 
 
 Ambition I my lip would laugh to scorn 
 
 Thy plume and thy gleaming sword I 
 I would follow sooner a woman's eye 
 
 Or a child's imperfect word ; 
 But come with the glory of human thought. 
 
 And the hght of the scholar's brow, 
 And my heart shall be taught forgetfulness 
 
 And alone at thy altar bow ! 
 
 There was one mild eye — there was one deep tone— 
 
 They were dear to this heart of mine I 
 Dearer to me was that mild blue eye 
 
 Than the light on Wisdom's shrine. 
 My soul brought up from its deepest cell 
 
 The sum of its earthly love ; 
 But it could not buy her wing from heaven. 
 
 And she flew to her home above. 
 
808 WILLISS POEMS. 
 
 That first deep love I have taken back 
 
 In my rayless breast to hide ; 
 With the tear it brought for a burning seal, 
 
 'Twill there forever bide. 
 I may stretch on now to another goal — 
 
 I may feed my thoughts of flame — 
 The tie is broken that kept me back, 
 
 And my mind speeds on — for fame. 
 
 But, alas ! I am dreaming as if I knew 
 
 The spell of the tablet green ! 
 I forget how like to a broken reed 
 
 Is the hope on which I lean. 
 There is nothing true of my idle dream 
 
 But the wreck of my early love, 
 And my mind is coin'd for my daily bread, 
 
 And how can it soar above ? 
 
 REVERIES, 
 
 AN EAELT POBM. 
 
 I AM an eldest son. My years 
 
 Have been like golden moments nursed: 
 And if I ever wept, my tears 
 
 From gentle fountains, gently burst. 
 My mother's kiss came with my prayer j 
 
 My father's blessing with my sleep j 
 
WILLIS S POEMS. aOb 
 
 My sister's words like music vreve, 
 
 And how could I have learn'd to weep ? 
 I did not — and have worn a brow 
 Of sunshine, even until now. 
 
 Love comes to such like nature's law, 
 
 As waters swelling to a gush ; 
 And thus, if light or life I saw, 
 
 My feelings to their source would rush. 
 A sunny leaf, a flitting shade, 
 
 A tint of autumn, moonlightj aught 
 By which this glorious world is made 
 
 So beautiful, my spirit caught — 
 And thriUing pleasure, and strange power 
 
 To love and to be blest rushed by, 
 And I have lived an angel's hour, 
 
 While sadder spirits long'd to die. 
 
 You well might deem that I should look 
 
 On coming days, as looks the sun 
 On leaf and tree, and find the book 
 
 Of nature seem a brilliant one. 
 Like him I look'd upon the side 
 
 The light in my own eye made bright ; 
 And ever found the shadows glide 
 
 Like guilty spirits from my sight. 
 What marvel then that I should build 
 
 The dreams this loitering tale would tell, 
 Of light, and that my thought should gild 
 
 The airy elements too well ? 
 
310 
 
 But it is so — and I will leave 
 
 The moral to the sad and dull, 
 For I can never stop to grieve 
 
 While I can find the beautiful. 
 
 I have lived twenty years, and feel 
 
 The longings which come ever then, 
 To try, with mind, or heart, or steel. 
 
 Collision with my fellow-men, 
 I burn to bound from beauty's thrall, 
 
 Where others deem me idly chain'd, 
 And strike my blow for aught, or all 
 
 That o'er the universe hath reign' d. 
 They call me boy — I feel the man — 
 
 And yet will prove how deeply set 
 Is that one element, " I can," 
 
 Among the things we ne'er forget. 
 'Tis time, I know, that I was flinging 
 
 My rosy fetters to the wind. 
 And, like the desert courser, springing 
 
 Upon the proud career of mind. 
 But it is near — and with that hour 
 
 I looked to see my follies flee ; 
 And sterner thoughts come on, with power 
 
 To nerve my wakening energy. 
 'Tis no fair dream — I look for trial, 
 
 Which every quivering sinew wrings; 
 For pourings from that bitter vial, 
 
 Which drinks to death hfe's swefling spring] 
 
Willis's poems. 31i 
 
 But far beyond my fancy resteth 
 
 On deep, sublimed, and glorion,« worth; 
 
 On strength, which, hke the eagle's, breasteth 
 The highest atmosphere of earth. 
 
 I look to rest — when fiie hath tried, 
 
 And much afSiction purified. 
 
 My coloring is not aye so deep — 
 
 Anticipations sometimes come 
 Like fancies in a gentle sleep, 
 
 And pencil sketches of a home ; 
 And in its delicate lines I trace 
 
 The tenderness of gentle eyes, 
 Whose molten light might be the place 
 
 For thought's unsullied paradise. 
 I feel the touch of ivory fingers 
 
 Upon my forehead's swollen vein, 
 And meet a look, whose softness lingers, 
 
 As if it would drink up my pain. 
 I hear a tone, whose silvery gush 
 
 Thrills every fibre, sweetly spoken, 
 And feel the rich tumultuous gush 
 
 Of fountains which had else been broken. 
 Beside a low bent head I kneel. 
 
 Whose raven tresses stir with prayer, 
 And hear my name, and deeply feel 
 
 How holy is the altar theie. 
 And then I gaze on dewy lashes, 
 
 And part the hair on a sweet brow, 
 26 
 
312 Willis's poems. 
 
 And watch for love's irapassion'd flashes 
 
 In eyes too serious till now. 
 I lay upon the wasting bed 
 
 Of sickness, and I watch a cheek 
 Whose color at my plaint has fled. 
 
 And count the deep bl' e veins that streak 
 Its lily whiteness ; and I listen 
 
 To tones that speak inquiringly, 
 And feel, that as the tear-drops glisten. 
 
 And fall upon me, I could die : 
 Fqv I should sink into my rest. 
 So utterly, supremely blest. 
 
 1826. 
 
Willis's poems. 313 
 
 THE LADY JANE; 
 
 OR, AN OLD MAID'S LOVE. 
 
 There was a lady — fair, and forty too. 
 
 There was a youth of scarcely two and twenty. 
 The story ot this love is strange, yet true. 
 
 I'll tell It you ! Romances are so plenty 
 In prose, that you'll be glad of something new. 
 
 And so I'll versify what did and meant he. 
 You think he was too young ! — but tell me whethe 
 The moth and humming-bird grow old together! 
 
 II. 
 
 Nature, that made the ivy-leaf and Hly, 
 ' Not of one warp and woof iiath wove us all ! 
 Bent goes the careful, and erect the silly, 
 
 And wear and tear make difference — not small; 
 And loveliness may drive through Piccadilly 
 
 Changeless till fifty, if no pangs befall. 
 A day's grief, out of some, a year's life washes; 
 Some shed it like ducks' backs and "Mackintoshes;." 
 
314 WILLI « S POEMS. 
 
 in. 
 
 The Lady Jane was daughter of an Earl — 
 
 Shut from approach hke sea-nymph in lier shell 
 
 Never a rude breath stirr'd the floating cirl 
 Upon her marble temple, and naugli' .ell 
 
 Upon the ear of the patrician girl 
 But pride-check'd syllables, all measured well. 
 
 Her suitors were her father's and not hers — 
 
 So were her debts at " S torr-and -Mortimer V." 
 
 IV. 
 
 Her health was lady-like. No blood, in riot, 
 
 Tangled the tracery of her veined cheek, 
 Nor seem'd her exquisite repose the quiet 
 
 Of one by suffering made sweet and meek- 
 She ate and drank, and probably lived by it, 
 
 And liked her cup of tea by no means weak I 
 Untroubled by debt, lovers, or affliction, 
 Her pulse beat with extremely little friction. 
 
 Yet was there fire within her soft gray eye, 
 And room for pressure on her lip of rose ; 
 
 And few who saw her gracefully move by, 
 Imagined that her feelings slept, or froze. 
 
 You m;iy have seen the cunning florist tie 
 A thread about a bud, which never blows, 
 
 But, with shut chalice from the sun and rain. 
 
 Hoards up the morn — and such the Lady Jane. 
 
-VV 1 L Jj I S S POEMS 
 
 The old lord had had offers for her hand, 
 To which he answer' d — hj his secretary. 
 
 And, doubtless, some were for the lady's land, 
 The men being old and valetudinary ; 
 
 But there were others who were all unmann'd, 
 And fell into a life of wild vagary. 
 
 In their despair. To tell his daughter of it, 
 
 The cold Earl thought would be but little profit. 
 
 vn. 
 
 And so she bloom'd— all fenced around with care ; 
 
 And none could find a way to wm or woo her. 
 When visible at home— the Earl was there ! 
 
 Abroad — her chaperon stuck closely to her ! 
 She was a sort of nun in open air, 
 
 Known to but few, and intimate with fewer; 
 And, always used to conversation guarded. 
 She thought all men talk'd just as her papa did 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Pause while you read, oh, Broadway demoiselle ! 
 
 And bless your stars that long before you marry, 
 You are a judge of passion pleaded well ! 
 
 For you have listen'd to Tom, Dick, and Harry, 
 An 1, if kind Heaven endow'd you for a belle. 
 
 At least your destiny did not miscarry 1 
 *< You've had your fling" — and now, all wise and steady; 
 For matrimony's cares you're cool and ready ! 
 
316 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 IX. 
 
 And yet the bloom upon the fruit is fain* 
 And " ignorance is bliss" in teaching love f 
 
 And guarding lips, when others have been theiSj 
 Is apt uneasy reveries to move I 
 
 I really think mammas should have a care ! 
 And though of nunneries I disapprove, 
 
 'Tis easier to make blushes hear to reason 
 
 Than to unteach a " Saratoga Season." 
 
 X. 
 
 In France, where, it is said, they wiser are. 
 Miss may not wat ">ut, even with her cousin* 
 
 And when she is abroad from bolt and bar, 
 
 A "w oil-bred man should be to her quite frozen j 
 
 And so at last, like a high-priced attar 
 Hermetically seal'd in silk and resin, 
 
 She is deliver'd safe to him who loves her; 
 
 And then — with whom she will she's hand and glove, sir' 
 
 XI. 
 
 I know this does not work well, and that ours 
 
 Are the best wives on earth. They love their spouses, 
 
 Who prize them — as you do centennial flowers. 
 
 For having bloom 'd, though not in your green-bouses 
 
 'Tis a bold wooer that dare talk of dowers. 
 And wliere /live, the milking of the cows is 
 
 Too rude a task for females ! Well. 'Twould hurt you, 
 
 Where women are so prized, to sneer at virtue. 
 
WILLIS'S rOEMS. 317 
 
 xn. 
 
 " Free-born Americans," they must have freedom I 
 They'll stay — if they have leave to run away. 
 
 They're ministering angels when you need 'em, 
 But 'specially want credit in Broadway. 
 
 French wives are more particular how you feed 'em, 
 The English drag you oftener to the play, 
 
 But ours we quite enslave — (more true than funny) — 
 
 V'Vith "heaven-born liberty," and trmt — or money 1 
 
 xin. 
 
 Upon her thirtieth birth-day. Lady Jane 
 
 Thought sadly on the twenties ! Even !.: -e Heens-_ 
 
 That she had said farewell to, without pa.u — 
 Leaves falling from a flower that nothing means--"" 
 
 Seem'd worth regathering to hve again ; 
 
 But not like Ruth, fares Memory, who gleans 
 
 After the careful Harvester of years : — 
 
 The Lady Jane thought on't Witu bitter tears ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 She glided to her mirror. From the air 
 G-lided to meet her, with its tearful eyes, 
 
 A semblance sad, but beautifully fair ; 
 
 And gradually there stole a sweet surprise 
 
 Under her lids, and as she laid the hair 
 
 Back from her snowy brow. Madonna-wise, 
 
 "Time, after all," she said, "a harmless flirt is I" 
 
 And from that liour took kindly to her thirties. 
 
318 WILLIS'3 POEMS 
 
 And, with his honors not at all unsteady, 
 
 The Decimal elect stepp'd coolly in ; 
 And having all his nights and mornings ready, 
 
 He'd very little trouble to begin. 
 And Twenty was quite popular, — they said he 
 
 Went out of office with so little din ! 
 The old Earl did not celebrate (nor ought he) 
 Eer "birth- days more. And like a dream came Forty. 
 
 A nd on the morn of it she stood to dress, 
 
 Mock'd by that flattering semblance, as before, 
 
 And hfted with a smile the raven tress. 
 
 That, darkening her white shoulder, swept the floor. 
 
 Time had not touch'd her dazzling loveliness I 
 " Yet is it time," she said, ' ^nat I give o'er — 
 
 Tm an old maid ! — ^and though I suffer by it, I 
 
 Must change my style and leave off gay society." 
 
 xvn. 
 And so she did. Her maid by her desire 
 
 Comb'd her luxuriant locks behind her ears ; 
 She had her dresses altered to come higher, 
 
 Though it dissolved the dress-maker in tears I 
 And flung a new French hat into the fire, 
 
 Which she had bought, " forgetful of her years." 
 This t' anticipate "the world's dread laugh!" 
 Most persons think too much of it, by half. 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 319 
 
 xvm. 
 I do not mean to say that generally 
 
 The ■' virtuous single" take too soon to tea ; 
 But now and then you find one who could rally 
 
 At forty, and go back to twenty-three — 
 A handsome, plump, aflfectionate " Aunt Sally," 
 
 With no taste for cats, flannel, and Bohea ! 
 And I would have her, spite of " he or she says," 
 Up heart and pin her kerchief as she pleases. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Some men, 'tis said, prefer a woman fat — 
 Lord Byron did. Some like her very spare. 
 
 Some like a lameness. (I have known one that 
 Would go quite far enough for your despair, 
 
 And halt in time.) Some like them delicate 
 As lilies, and with some " the only wear" 
 
 Is one whose sex has spoil'd a midshipman. 
 
 Some only liked what pleased another man 
 
 XX. 
 
 /like one that likes me. But there's a kind 
 
 Of women, very dangerous to poets, 
 Whose hearts beat with a truth that seems like mind - 
 
 A nature that, though passionate, will show its 
 Devotion by not being rash or blind ; 
 
 But by sweet study grows to love. And so it's 
 Not odd if they are counted cold, though handsome, 
 And never meet a man who understand 'em. 
 
320 Willis's poems 
 
 By never I mean late in life. But ah ! 
 
 How exquisite their love and friendship then I 
 Perennial of soul such women are, 
 
 And readers of the hearts of gifted men : 
 And as the deep well mourns the hidden star, 
 
 And mirrors the first ray that beams again, 
 They — be the loved light lost or dimly burning — 
 Feel all its clouds, and trust its bright returning. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 In outward seeming tranquil and subdued. 
 Their hearts beneath beat youthfully and fast, 
 
 Time and imprison'd love make not a prude; 
 And warm the gift we know to be the last ; 
 
 And pure is the devotion that must brood 
 Upon your hopes alone — for hers are past ! 
 
 Trust me, "a rising man " rose seldom higher, 
 
 But some dear, sweat old maid has puU'd the wire. 
 
 XXIIL 
 
 The Lady Jane, (pray do not think that hers 
 Was quite the character I have drawn above. 
 
 Old maids, like young, have various calibres, 
 
 And hers was moderate, though she was "a love,"\ 
 
 The Lady Jane call'd on the dowagers — 
 Mainly her slight acquaintance to improve. 
 
 But partly with a docile wish to know 
 
 What solaces of age were comme il /ant. 
 
Willis's poems. 321 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 They stared at her plain hat and air demure, 
 
 But answer'd her with some particularity ; 
 And she was edified you may be sure, 
 
 And added vastly to her popularity. 
 She found a dozen mad on furniture, 
 
 Five on emboidery, and none on charity; 
 But her last call — the others were but short ones — 
 
 Turn'd out to Lady Jane of some importance. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 The door was open'd by a Spanish page — 
 A handsome lad in green witii bullet buttons, 
 
 Who look'd out like a trulian, from a cage. 
 And deign'd to glance at the tall menial but once, 
 
 Then bent, with earnestness beyond his age, 
 
 His eyes, (you would have liked to see them shut once, 
 
 The fringes were so long) — on Lady Jane. 
 
 The varlet clearly thought her not so plain. 
 
 And bounding up the flower-laden stair, 
 He waited her ascent, then open flung 
 
 A mirror, clear as it 'twere a door of air, 
 
 Which on its silver hinge with music swung — 
 
 Contrived that never foot should enter there 
 Unheralded by that melodious tongue, 
 
 Tiiis delicate alarum is worth while 
 
 More 'specially with carpets of three-pile. 
 
322 Willis's poems. 
 
 Beyond a gallery extended, cool, 
 
 And softly lighted, and, from dome to floor, 
 Hung pictures — mostly the Venetian school ; 
 
 Each " worth a Jew's eye "—very likely more; 
 And drapery, gold-broider'd in Stamboul, 
 
 Closed the extremity in lieu of door: 
 This the page lifted, and disclosed to view 
 The boudoir of the Countess Pasibleu. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 It was a small pavilion lined w^ith prnk, — 
 
 Mirrors and silk all, save the door and sky-light, 
 
 The latter of stain'd glass. (You would not think 
 How juvenescent is a rosy high light!) 
 
 Upon the table v^^ere seen pen and ink, 
 
 (Two things I cannot say have stood in my light,) 
 
 Amid a host of trinkets, toys, and fans; 
 
 The table in the style of Louis Quinze. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 A singular and fragile little creature 
 
 Upon the cushions indolently lay. 
 With waning life in each transparent feature, 
 
 But youth in her bright lips' ethereal play; 
 In short, the kind of creature that would meet your 
 
 Conception of a transmigrating fay — 
 The dark eyes, not at all worn out or weary, 
 Kindling for transfer to some baby Peri ! 
 
WILLISS POEMS. 323 
 
 XXX. 
 
 The rest used up, past mending. Yet her tones 
 Were wildly, deeply, exquisitely clear ; 
 
 Though voice is not a thing of flesh and bones, 
 And probably goes up while they stay here. 
 
 ITot to imply that nasal Smith and Jones 
 
 Will twang as usual in the " bitter sphere," — 
 
 But tones there be which must (the Lord assoil them 1) 
 
 Bewitch as they do here, or heaven will spoil them. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Her person was dress' d very like her soul — 
 
 In fine material most loosely worn. 
 A cobweb cashmere struggled to control 
 
 Ringlets that laugh'd the filmy folds to scorn, 
 And, from the shawls in which she nestled, stole 
 
 The smallest slipper ever soil'd or torn. 
 You would not guess her age by looking at her, 
 Nor fi:om my sketch, of course. We'll leave that matter. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 "My dear!" the Countess said, (by this time she 
 
 Had ceased the Weather, poor old man, to hammer- 
 He gets it, in these morning calls, pardie ! 
 
 And Lady Jane had hinted with a stammer 
 Her errand — somewhat deUcate, you see,) 
 
 " My dear, how very odd ! I fear I am a 
 Poor judge of age — (who made that funny bona( 
 Indeed, I always turn'd my back upon it ! 
 27 
 
324 WILLIS'S POEMS 
 
 " Time has no business in one's house, my dear 1 
 I'm not at home to any of my creditors. 
 
 They send their nasty bills in, once a year, 
 
 And Time's are like Mortality's — mere ' dead letters.' 
 
 Besides, what comfort is there living here. 
 
 If every stupid hour's to throw Death's head at us? 
 
 (Lend me a pin, dear !) Time at last will stop us : 
 
 But, come to that — we're free by habeas corpus. 
 
 (" Fie, what a naughty shawl ! No expose, 
 
 I trust, love, eh ? Hold there, thou virtuous pin 
 
 And so you really have come out to-day 
 To look you up some suitable new sin I" 
 
 " Oh, Countess !" " Did you never write a play? 
 Nor novel ? Well, you really should begin I 
 
 For, (hark, my dear !) the publishers are biters, 
 
 Not at the book's fine title — but the writer's. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 " You're half an authoress ; for, as my maid says 
 'Begun's half done,' and you've your title writ. 
 
 I quote from Colburn, and as "vhat ' the trade' says 
 Is paid for, it is well-consider'd wit. 
 
 Genius, undoubtedly, of many grades is, 
 But as to us, we do not need a bit. 
 
 ' Three volumes,' says the bargain, ' not too thia.' 
 
 You don't suppose I'd throw him genius inl" 
 
Willis's poems. 325 
 
 "But/am'', dear Countess !'' At the word there flush'd 
 
 A color to her cheek Uke fever's glow, 
 And in her hand unconsciously she crush'd 
 
 The fringes of her shawl, and bending low 
 To hide the tears that suddenly had gush'd 
 
 Into her large, dark eyes, she murmur'd " No ! 
 TU' inglorious agony of conquering pain 
 Has drunk that dream up. 1 have hved in vain ! 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 '•'Yet have I set my soul upon the string. 
 
 Tense with the energy of high desire, 
 And trembled with the arrow's quivering spring, 
 
 To launch upon ambition's flight of fire ! 
 And never lark so hush'dhis heart to sing, 
 
 Or, as he sung, nerved wing to bear it higher, 
 As I have striven my wild heart to tame 
 And melt its love, pride, passion — into fame! 
 
 "Oh, poor the flattery to call it mine 
 
 For trifles which beguiled an hour of pain, 
 
 Or, on the echoing heels of mirth and wiue, 
 
 Crept through the chambers of a throbbing brain. 
 
 Worthily^ have I never written line ! 
 And when they talk to me oi' fame I gain, 
 
 In very bitterness of soul I mock it, — 
 
 And put the nett proceeds into my pocket I 
 
326 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 " And so, my dear, — ^let not the market vary, — 
 I bid the critics, pro and cow, defiance ; 
 
 And then I'm fond of being hterary, 
 
 And have a tenderness for ' sucking lions.' 
 
 My friend the Dutchess has a fancy dairy : — 
 Cheeses or poets, curds or men of science — 
 
 It comes to the same thing. But, truce to mocking- 
 
 Suppose you try my color in a stocking !" 
 
 XL. 
 
 I need not state the ratiocination 
 
 By which the Lady Jane had so decided — 
 
 Not quite upon the regular vocation — 
 
 Of course you knew she was too rich (or /did) 
 
 To care with Costard for " remuneration ;" 
 But feeling that her life like Lethe glided, 
 
 She thought 'twould be advisable to bag her a 
 
 Few brace of rapids from her friend's Niagara. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 ** Well, Countess 1 what shall be my premier pas ? 
 
 Must I propitiate the penny-a-liners ? 
 Or would a ' sucking lion' stoop so far 
 
 As to be fed and petted by a dry nurse ? 
 I cannot shine — but I can see a star — 
 
 Are there not worshippers as well as shiners ? 
 I will be ruled implicity by you : — 
 My stocking's innocent — how dye it hlue V 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 327 
 
 XUL 
 
 The Countess number'd on her fingers, musing : — 
 " I've several that I might make you over, 
 
 And not be inconsolable at losing ; 
 
 But, reaUy, as you've neither spouse nor lover, 
 
 'Most any of my pets would be amusing, 
 Particularly if you're not above a 
 
 Discreet flirtation. Are you ? How's the Earl ? 
 
 Does he still treat you like a little girl ? 
 
 XLin, 
 
 " How do you see your visitors ? Alone ? 
 
 Does the Earl sleep at table after dinner ? 
 Have you had many lovers I Dear me ! None ? 
 
 Was not your father something of a sinner ? 
 Who is the nicest man you've ever known ? 
 
 Pray, does the butler bring your letters in, or 
 Pirst take them to the Earl ? Is he not rather 
 A surly dog? — the butler, not your father." 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 To these inquiries the Lady Jane 
 
 Rephed with nods, or something as laconic, 
 
 For on the Countess rattled, might and main. 
 With a rapidity Napoleonic ; 
 
 Then mused and said, " 'Twill never do, it's plain— 
 The poet must be warranted Platonic ! 
 
 But, query — how to find you such an oddity ? 
 
 My dear, they all make love ! — it's their commodit' 
 
328 WILLIS'S P O i:: il s 
 
 XLT, 
 
 " The poet's on the look-out for a sceae — 
 
 The painter for a ' novel situation ;' 
 And either does much business between 
 
 The little pauses of a declaration — 
 Noting the way in which you sob or lean, 
 
 Or use your handkerchief in agitation. 
 I've known one — making love like Roderick Random 
 Get off liis knees and make a memorandum ! 
 
 XLVL 
 
 '' You see they're always ready for their trade, 
 And have a speech as pat as a town-crier ; 
 
 And so, my dear, I'm naturally afraid 
 
 To trust you with these gentlemen-on-fire. 
 
 I knew a most respectable old maid 
 
 A dramatist made love to — just to try her! 
 
 She hang'd herself, of course — ^but in that way 
 
 He got some pretty touches for his play. 
 
 XLVIL 
 
 " How shall we manage it ? I say, with tears, 
 I've only two that are not rogues at bottom ; 
 
 And one of these would soon be ' over ears' 
 In love with you, — ^but that he hasn't got 'em I 
 
 They were cut off by the New Zealanders — 
 (As he invariably adds) ' 'od-rot-'em!' 
 
 (Meaning the savages.) He's quite a poet. 
 
 (He wears his hair so that you wouldn't know it,) 
 
■VVILLISS POEMS. 329 
 
 XLvni. 
 
 "In his ideas, I mean. (I really am at a 
 Stand-still about you.) Well — this man, one day, 
 
 Took in his head to own the earth's diameter.^ 
 From zenith through to nadir ! (They do say 
 
 He kill'd his wife — or threw a ham at her — 
 Or something — so he had to go away — 
 
 That's neither here nor there.) His name is AVieland, 
 
 And under him exactly lies New Zealand. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 " I'm not certain if his ' seat' 's, or no, 
 In the Low Countries. But the sky above it 
 
 Of course is his ; and for some way below 
 He has a right to dig and to improve it; 
 
 But under him, a million miles or so, 
 
 Lies land that's not his, — and the law can't move it. 
 
 It cut poor Wieland's nadir off, no doubt — 
 
 And so he sail'd to buy the owner out 
 
 •'I never quite made out the calculation- 
 But plump against his cellar floor, bin 2, 
 
 He found a tribe had built their habitation, 
 Whose food was foreigners and kangaroo. 
 
 They would sell out — but, to his consternation, 
 They charged him — all the fattest of his crew ! 
 
 At last they caught and roasted every one — 
 
 But he escaped by being under-done !" 
 
330 WILLIS S POEMS, 
 
 That such a lion was well worth his feed, 
 Confess'd with merry tears the Lady Jane ; 
 
 But, that he answer'd to her present need, 
 (A literary pet,) was not so plain. 
 
 She thought she'd give the matter up, indeed, 
 Or turn it over and so call again. 
 
 However, as her friend had mention'd two, 
 
 Perhaps the other might be made to do. 
 
 LII. 
 
 " I'm looking," said the Countess, " for a letter 
 From my old playmate, Isabella Gray. 
 
 'Tis Heaven knows how long since I have met her; 
 She ran away and married one fine day — 
 
 Poor girl ! She might have done a great deal better I 
 The boy that she has sent to me, they say. 
 
 Is handsome, and has talents very striking : 
 
 So young, too — you can spoil him to your liking. 
 
 Lni. 
 
 " Her letter will amuse you. You must know 
 That, from her marriage-day, her lord has shut her 
 
 Securely up in an old French chateau ; 
 
 Where, with her children and no woman but her, 
 
 He plays the old school gentleman ; and so 
 Her worldly knowledge stopp'd at bread and butter. 
 
 She thinks I may be changed by time — for, may bo 
 
 I've lost a tooth or got another baby. 
 
Willis's poems. 331 
 
 LIV. 
 
 "Heigh-ho! — 'tis evident we're made of clay, 
 And harden unless kept in tears and shade ; 
 
 This fashionable sunshine dries away- 
 Much that we err in losing, I'm afraid! 
 
 I wonder what my guardian angels say 
 About the sort of woman I have made 
 
 I wish I could begin my life again ! 
 
 What think you of Pythagoras, Lady Jane ? " 
 
 The Countess, all this while was running over 
 The pages of a letter, clos -ly cross'd : — 
 
 "I wish," she said, "my most devoted lover 
 Took half the trouble that this scrawl has cost ! 
 
 Though some of it is quite a flight above a 
 
 Sane woman's comprehension. Tut! Where was't! 
 
 There is a passage here — the name's Beawlevres — 
 
 His chateau's in the meighborhood of Sevres. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 "The boy's call'd Jules. Ah, here it is!* My child 
 Brings you this letter. I've not much to say 
 
 More than you know of him, if he has smiled 
 When you have seen him. In his features play 
 
 The light from which his soul has been beguiled — 
 The blessed Heaven I lose with him to-day. 
 
 I ask you not to love him — he is tliere! 
 
 And you have loved him — without wish or prayer! 
 
332 Willis's poems, 
 
 LVII. 
 
 " ' His father sent him forth for fame and gold — 
 An angel on this errand ! I have striven 
 
 Against it — but he is not mine to hold. 
 
 They say 'tis wrong to wish to stay him, even, 
 
 And that my pride's poor — my ambition cold I 
 Alas ! to get him only back to Heaven 
 
 Is my one passionate prayer 1 Think me not wild- 
 
 'Tis that I have an angel for my child I 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 " ' They say that he has genius. I but see 
 That he gets wisdom as the flower gets hue, 
 
 While others hive it hke the toiling bee ; 
 
 That, with him, all things beautiful keep new. 
 
 And every morn the first morn seems to be — 
 So freshly look abroad his eyes of blue ! 
 
 What he has written seems to me no more 
 
 Than I have thought a thousand times before ! 
 
 LIX. 
 
 " ' Yet not upon his gay career to Fame 
 
 Broods my foreboding tear. I wish it won — 
 
 My prayer speeds on his spirit to his aim — 
 But in his chamber wait I for my son ! — 
 
 When darken' d is ambition's star of fame — 
 When the night's fever of unrest is on — • 
 
 With the unbidden sadness, the sharp care, 
 
 I fly from his bright hours, to meet him there J 
 
WILLIS S POEMS. 333 
 
 LX. 
 
 ^* 'Forgive me if I prate! Is't much — is't wild — 
 To liope — to pray — tliat you will sometimes creep 
 
 To the dream-haunted pillow of my child, 
 Keeping sweet watch above his fitful sleep V 
 
 Blest like his mother, if in dream he smiled, 
 Or, if he wept, still blest with him to weep ; 
 
 Rewarded — oh, for how much more than this ! — • 
 
 By his awaking smile — his morning kiss ! 
 
 LXI. 
 
 " 'I know not how to stop I He leaves me well; 
 
 Life, spirit, health, in all his features speak ; 
 HLs foot bounds with the spring of a gazelle ; 
 
 But watch him — stay ! well thought on ! — there's a streal^ 
 Which the first faltering of nis tongue will tell. 
 
 Long ere the bright blood wavers on his cheek — 
 A little bursted vein, that, near his heart, 
 Looks like a crimson thread half torn apart. 
 
 '' ' So, trusting not his cheek by morning light, 
 When hope sits manthng on it, seek his bed 
 
 In the more tranquil watches of the^ night. 
 And ask this tell-tale how his heart has sped. 
 
 If well — its branching tracery siiows bright ; 
 But if its sanguine hue look cold and dead, 
 
 All, Gertrude I let your ministering be 
 
 As you would answer it, in heaven, to me I" " 
 
334 WILLIS S rOEML 
 
 Enter the page :— " Miladi's maid is waiting!'*-^ 
 A hint, (that it was time to dress for dinner,) 
 
 Which puts a stop in London to all prating. 
 As far as goes the letter you're a winner, 
 
 The rest of it to flannel shirts relating — 
 
 When Jules should wear his thicker, when his thinner 
 
 The Countess laugh'd at Lady Jane's adieu : 
 
 She thought the letter touching. Pray, don't you ? 
 
 I have observed that Heaven, in answering prayer, 
 (This is not meant to be a pious stanza — 
 
 Only a fact that has a pious air.) 
 
 (We're very sure, I think, to have an answer ;) 
 
 But I've observed, I would remark, that where 
 Our plans are ill-contrived, as oft our plans are 
 
 Kind Providence goes quite another way 
 
 To bring about the end for which we pray„ 
 
 LXV. 
 
 In this connection I would also add, 
 That a discreet young angel, (bonajide,) 
 
 Accompanied our amiable lad; 
 
 And that he walk'd not out, nor stepp'd aside he. 
 
 Nor met with an adventure, good or bad, 
 (Although he enter'd London on a Friday,) 
 
 Nor ate, nor drank, nor closed his eye a minute, 
 
 Without this angel's guiding finger in it. 
 
WILLIS S POEMS. 335 
 
 His mother, as her letter seems to show, 
 Expected him, without delay or bother, — 
 
 Portmanteau, carpet-bag, and all — to go 
 Straight to her old friend s house — (forsooth I what other!) 
 
 The angel, who would seem the world to know, 
 Advised the boy to drive to Mivart's rather : 
 
 He did. The angel, (as I trust is plain,) 
 
 Lodged in the vacant heart of Lady Jane. 
 
 A month in town these gentlemen had been 
 At date of the commencement of my story. 
 
 The angel's occupations you have seen, 
 If you have read what I have laid before ye. 
 
 Jules had seen Dan O'Connell and the Queen, 
 And girded up his loins for fame and glory, 
 
 And changed his old integuments for better ; 
 
 And then he call'd and left his mother's letter. 
 
 Lvin. 
 
 That female hearts grow never old in towns — 
 That taste grows rather young with dissipation — 
 
 That dowagers dress not in high-neck'd gowns — 
 Nor are, at fifty, proof against flirtation — 
 
 That hospitality is left to clowns. 
 Or elbow'd from the world by ostentation — 
 
 That a " tried friend" should not be tried again— 
 
 That boys at seventeen are partly men— 
 28 
 
336 Willis's poems. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 Are truths, as pat as paving-stones, in cities. 
 
 The contrary is true of country air ; 
 (Where the mind rusts, which is a thousand pities, 
 
 While still the cheek keeps fresh and debonnair.) 
 But what I'm trying in this verse to hit is. 
 
 That Heaven, in answering Jules's mother's prayer, 
 Began by thwarting all her plans and suavities ; 
 As needs must — vide the just-named depravities. 
 
 Some stanzas back, we left the ladies going, 
 At six, to dress for dinner. Time to dine 
 
 I always give in poetry, well knowing 
 That, to jump over it in half a line. 
 
 Looks, (let us be sincere, dear muse !) like showing 
 Contempt we do not feel, for meat and wine. 
 
 Dinner ! Te Grods ! What is there more respectable ! 
 
 Tor eating, who, save Byron, ever check'd a belle I 
 
 *Tis ten — say half-past. Lady Jane has dined, 
 And dress'd as simply as a lady may. 
 
 A card lies on her table '' To Remind" — 
 'Tis odd she never thought of it to-day. 
 
 But she is pleasantly surprised to find 
 'Tis Friday night, the Countess's soiree. 
 
 Back rolls the chariot to Berkely Square. 
 
 If you have dined, dear reader, let's go there 1 
 
Willis's poems. 337 
 
 LXXIL 
 
 We're early, Iii the cloak-room smokes the urn, 
 The house-keeper behind it, fat and solemn, 
 
 Steady as stars the fresh-lit candles burn, 
 
 And on the stairs the new-blown what d'ye call em, 
 
 Their nodding cups of perfume overturn; 
 The page leans idly by the marble column, 
 
 And stiffly a tall footman stands above, 
 
 Looking between the fingeis of his glove. 
 
 All bright and silent, like a charmed palace — 
 The spells wound up, the fays to come at twelve; 
 
 The house-keeper a witch, {cum grano salts ;) 
 The handsome page, perhaps, a royal elve 
 
 Condemn'd to servitude by fairy malice; 
 (I wish the varlet had these rhymes to delve) 
 
 Some magic hall, it seems, revel bright, 
 
 And Lady Jane the spirit first alight. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 Alas ! here vanishes tlie foot of Pleasure I 
 She — like an early guest — goes in before, 
 
 And comes, when all are gone, for Memory's treasure, 
 But is not found upon the crowded floor, 
 
 (Unless, indeed, some charming woman says you're 
 A love, which makes close quarters less a bore.) 
 
 I've seen her, down Anticipation's vista, 
 
 As large as life — and walk'd straight on, andmiss'd her. 
 
33vS WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 With a declining taste for making friends, 
 One's taste for the fatigue of pleasure's past , 
 
 And then, one sometimes wonders which transcends- 
 The first hour of a gay night, or the last. 
 
 (Beginners '' burn the candle at both ends," 
 And find the middle brightest — that is fast !) 
 
 But a good rule at parties, (to keep up a 
 
 Mercurial air,) is to come in at supper. 
 
 I mean that you should go to bed at nine 
 
 And sleep till twelve — take coffee or green tea, 
 
 Dress and go out — (this was a way of mine 
 When looking up the world in '33) — 
 
 Sup at the ball — (it's not a place for wine) — 
 Sleep, or not, after, as the case may be. 
 
 You've the advantage, thus, when all are yawning, 
 
 Of growing rather fresher toward morning. 
 
 Lxxvn. 
 
 But, after thirty, here's your best " EHxir :" 
 
 Breakfast betimes. Do something worth your while 
 
 By twelve or one — (this maKCS the blood run quick, sir!' 
 Dine with some man or woman who will smile. 
 
 Have little cause to care how politics are, 
 "Let not the sun go down upon your" bile; 
 
 And, if well-married, rich, and not too clever, 
 
 T don't see why you shouldn't live forever. 
 
Willis's poems. 339 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 Short-lived is your "sad dog" — and yet, we hear, 
 ''Whom the gods love die young." Of course the ladies 
 
 Are safe in loving what the gods hold dear; 
 And the result, I'm very much afraid, is, 
 
 That if he "has his day," it's "neither here 
 Nor there! " But it is time our hero made his 
 
 Appearance on the carpet, Lady Jane — 
 
 (I'll mend this vile pen, and begin again.) 
 
 The Lady Jane walk'd thro' the bright rooms, breaking 
 The glittering silence with her flowing dress. 
 
 Whose pure folds seem'd a coy resistance making 
 To the fond air, while, to her loveliness 
 
 The quick-eyed mirrors breathlessly awaking, 
 Acknowledged not one radiant line the less 
 
 That not on them she look'd before she faded ! 
 
 Neglected gentlemen can't do as they did : — 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 No ! — for, 'twixt our quicksilver and a woman, 
 Nature has put no glass, for non-conductor. 
 
 And, while she's imaged in their bosoms, few men 
 Can make a calm, cold mirror their instructor; 
 
 For, when beloved, we deify what's human — 
 
 When piqued, we mock like devils! But I've phick'd 
 
 Digression here. It's no use my contending— 
 
 Fancy will ramble while the pen is mending! 
 28* 
 
340 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 A small room on the left, (I'll get on faster 
 
 If you're impatient,) very soltly lit 
 By lamps conceal'd in bells of alabaster, 
 
 Lipp'd like a lily, and " as white as it," 
 With a sweet statue by a famous master, 
 
 Just in the centre, (but not dress'd a bit !) 
 This dim room drew aside our early-comer. 
 Who thought it like a moonlight night in summer. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 And so it was. For, through an opening door, 
 Came the soft breath of a conservatory, 
 
 And, bending its tall stem the threshold o'er. 
 Swung in a crimson flower, the tropics' glory; 
 
 And, as you gazed, the vista lengthen'd more. 
 
 And statues, lamps, and flowers — but, to my story ? 
 
 The room was cushion'd like a Bey's divan ; 
 
 And in it — (Heaven preserve us !) — sat a man I 
 
 At least, as far as boots and pantaloons 
 
 Are symptoms of a man, there seem'd one there — 
 Whatever was the number of his Junes. 
 
 She look'd again, and started ! In a chair, 
 Sleeping as if his eyelids had been moons. 
 
 Reclined, with flakes of sunshine in his hair, 
 (Or, what look'd like it,) a fair youth, quite real, 
 But of a beauty like the Greek ideal. 
 
WILLIS S POEMS. 341 
 
 He slept, like Love by slumber overtaken, 
 His bow unbent, his quiver thrown aside; 
 
 The lip might to a manlier arch awaken — 
 The nostril, so serene, dilate with pride : 
 
 But now he lay, of all his masks forsaken. 
 
 And childhood's sleep was there, and naught beside : 
 
 And his bright lips lay smilingly apart. 
 
 Like a torn crimson leaf with pearly heart. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 Now Jules Beaulevres, Esq. — (this was he) — 
 Had never been " put up" to London hours ; 
 And thinking he was simply ask'd to tea. 
 
 Had been, since seven, looking at the flowers- 
 No doubt extremely pleasant, — but, you see, 
 
 A great deal of it rather overpowers ; 
 And possibly, that very fine exotic 
 He sat just under, was a slight narcotic. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 At any rate, when it was all admired^ — 
 
 As quite his notion of a heaven polite, 
 (Minus the angels,) — he felt very tired — 
 
 As one, who'd been all day sight-seeing, might/ 
 And having by the Countess been desired 
 
 To make himself at home, he did so, qnite. 
 He begg'd his early coming might not fetter her, 
 And she went out to dine, the old— etcetera. 
 
342 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 LXXX^ 
 
 And thinking of his mother — and his bill 
 At Mivart's — and of all the sights amazing 
 
 Of which, the last few days, he'd had his fill — 
 
 And choking when he thought of fame — and gazin^ 
 
 Upon his varnish'd boots, (as young men will,) 
 
 And wond'ring how the shops could pay for glazing- 
 
 And also, (here his thoughts were getting dim,) 
 
 Whether a certain smile was meant for him — 
 
 And murm'ring over, with a drowsy bow. 
 
 The speech he made the Countess, when he met he- 
 
 And smiling, with closed eyelids, (thinking how 
 He should describe her in the morrow's letter) — 
 
 And sighing '^ Grood-night !" (he was dreaming now)— 
 Jules dropp'd into a world he liked much better, 
 
 But left his earthly mansion unprotected : 
 
 Well, sirl 'twas robb'd — as might have been expected 
 
 The Lady Jane gazed on the fair boy sleeping, 
 And in his lips' rare beauty read his name ; 
 
 And to his side with breathless wonder creeping 
 Resistless to her heart the feeling came 
 
 That, to her yearning love's devoted keeping. 
 Was given the gem within that fragile frame. 
 
 And bending, with almost a mother's bliss, 
 
 To ]i:3 bright lips, slie seal'd it with a kiss I 
 
Willis's poems. 343 
 
 Oh, in that kiss how much of heaven united f 
 Wiiat haste to pity — eagerness to bless ! 
 
 What thirsting of a heart, long pent and sHghted, 
 For something fair, yet human, to caress! 
 
 How fathomless the love so briefly plighted! 
 What kiss thrill'd ever more — sinn'd ever less ! 
 
 So love the angels, sent with holy mercies! 
 
 And 6o love poets — in their early verses ! 
 
 XCI. 
 
 If, in well bred society, ("hear! hear!") 
 
 If, in this " wrong and pleasant " world of ours 
 
 There beats a pulse that seraphs may revere — 
 If Eden's birds, when frightened from its flowers, 
 
 Clung to one deathless seed, still blooming here — 
 If Time cut ever down, 'mid blighted hours, 
 
 A bliss that will spring up in bliss again — 
 
 'Tis woman's love. This I believe. Amen! 
 
 To guard from ill, to help, watch over, warn- 
 To learn, for his sake, sadness, patience, pain- 
 To seek him with most love when most forlorn- 
 Promised the mute kiss of the Lady Jane. 
 And thus, in sinless purity is born, 
 
 Alway, the love of woman. So again, 
 I say, that up to kissing — later even — 
 A woman's love may take its fire from heaven. 
 
844 AVILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 XCIII 
 
 Jules open'd (at the kiss) his large blue eyes. 
 And calmly gazed upon the face above him, 
 
 But never stirr'd, and utter'd no surprise — 
 Although his situation well might move him. 
 
 He seem'd so cool, (my lyre shall tell no lies^) 
 
 That Lady Jane half thought she shouldn't love him ; 
 
 When suddenly the Countess Pasibleu 
 
 Enter'd the room with " Dear me 1 how dy'e do ?" 
 
 xciv. 
 
 Up sprang the boy — amazement on his brow 
 
 But the next instant, through his lips there crept 
 
 A just awakening smile, and, with a bow, 
 Calmly he said : " 'Twas only while I slept 
 
 The angels did not vanish — until now." 
 A speech, I think, quite worthy an adept. 
 
 The Countess stared, and Lady Jane began 
 
 To fear that she had kiss'd a nice young man. 
 
 Jules had that precious quality call'd tact ; 
 
 And having made a very warm beginning. 
 He suddenly grew grave, and rather back'd ■ 
 
 As if incapable of further sinning. 
 'Twas well he did so, for, it is a fact, 
 
 The ladies like, themselves, to do the winning. 
 In female Shakspeares, Desdemonas shine ; 
 And the Othellos " seriously incline." 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 345. 
 
 So, with a manner quite reserved and plain, 
 Jules ask'd to be presented, and then made 
 
 Many apologies to Lady Jane 
 
 For the eccentric part that he had play'd. 
 
 Regretted he had slept — confess' d with pain 
 He took her for an angel — was afraid 
 
 lie had been rude — abrupt — did he alarm 
 
 Her much ? — and might he oflfer her his arm ? 
 
 XCVIL 
 
 And as they ranged that sweet conservator}^. 
 He heeded not the flowers he walk'd among : 
 
 But such an air of earnest listening wore he. 
 That a dumb statue must have found a tongue ; 
 
 And like a child that hears a fairy story, 
 His parted lips upon her utterance hung. 
 
 He seem'd to know by instinct (else how Avas it?) 
 
 That people love the bank where they deposit. 
 
 And closer, as the moments faster ^vore. 
 
 The slender arm within her own she press'd ; 
 
 And yielding to the magic spell he bore — 
 The earnest truth upon his lips impress'd — 
 
 She lavishly told out the golden ore 
 
 Hoarded a hfe-time in her guarded breast. 
 
 And Jules, throughout, was beautifully tcnder- 
 
 Although ho did not always comprehend her. 
 
346 WILLISS POEMS. 
 
 XCIX. 
 
 And this in him was no deep calculation, 
 
 But in good truth, as well as graceful seeming, 
 
 Abandonment complete to admiration — 
 
 His soul gone from him as it goes in dreaming. 
 
 I wish'd to make this little explanation, 
 
 Misgiving that his tact might go for scheming ; 
 
 I can assure you it was never plann'd ; 
 
 I have it from his angel, (second hand.) 
 
 c. 
 
 And from the same authentic source I know, 
 The Lady Jane still thought him but a lad ; 
 
 Though why the dense she didn't treat him so, 
 Is quite enough to drive conjecture mad ! 
 
 Perhaps she thought that it would make him grow 
 To take more beard for granted than he had. 
 
 A funny friend to lend a nice young man to ! 
 
 I'm glad I've got him safely through one Canto. 
 
WILLIS'S rCEMR, 347 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 The Countess Pasibleu's gay rooms were full, 
 Not crowded. It was neither rout nor ball 
 
 Only " her Friday night." The air was cool ; 
 And there were people in the house of all 
 
 Varieties, except the pure John Bull. 
 
 The number of young ladies, too, was small — 
 
 You seldom find old John, or his young daughters, 
 
 Swimming in very hterary waters. 
 
 Indeed, with rare exceptions, women given 
 
 To the society of famous men, 
 Are those who will confess to twenty-seven ; 
 
 But add to this the next reluctant ten, 
 And still they're fit to make a poet's heaven, 
 
 For sumptuously beautiful is then 
 The woman of proud mien and thoughtful brow ; 
 And one (still bright in her meiidian now) 
 29 
 
348 
 
 ir I L L I S ' S P O E M 3 
 
 ni. 
 
 Bent upon Jules, that night, her lustrous eye. 
 
 A creature of a loftier mould was she 
 Than in his dreams had ever ghded by ; 
 
 And through his veins the blood flew starting^, 
 And he felt sick at heart — he knew not why — 
 
 For 'tis the sadness of the lost to see 
 Angels look on us with a cold regard, 
 (Not knowing those who never left their card. 
 
 She had a low, sweet brow, with fringed lakes 
 Of an unfathom'd darkness couch'd below ; 
 
 And parted on that brow in jetty flakes 
 
 The raven hair swept back with wavy flow, 
 
 Bounding a head of such a shape as makes 
 The old Greek marble with the goddess glow. 
 
 Her nostril's breathing arch might threaten storm—* 
 
 But love lay in her lips, all hush'd and warm. 
 
 V. 
 
 And small teeth, glittering white, and cheeks whose red 
 Seem'd Passion, there asleep, in rosy nest : 
 
 And neck set on as if to bear a head — 
 May be a lily, may be Juno's crest, — 
 
 So lightly sprang it from its snow-white bed I 
 So proudly rode above the swelling breast 1 
 
 And motion, effortless as stars awaking 
 
 And melting out, at eve, and morning's breaking; 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 3i9 
 
 VI. 
 
 And voice delicious quite, and smile that came 
 
 Slow to the lips, as 'twere the heart smiled thro' : — - 
 These charms I've been particular to name, 
 
 For they are, like an inventory, true, 
 And of themselves were stuflf enough for fame ; 
 
 But she, so wondrous fair, has genius too. 
 And brilliantly her thread of life is spun — 
 
 In verse and beauty both, the " Undying One I" 
 
 And song — for in those kindling lips there lay 
 Music to wing all utterance outward breaking, 
 
 As if upon the ivory teeth did play 
 
 Angels, who caught the words at their awaking, 
 
 And sped them with sweet melodies away — 
 
 The hearts of those who listen'd with them taking. 
 
 Of proof to this last fact there's little lack ; 
 
 And Jules, poor lad 1 ne'er got his truant back 1 
 
 That heart stays with her still. 'Tis one of two, 
 (I should premise) — all poets being double. 
 
 Living in two worlds as of course they do, 
 Fancy and fact, and rarely taking trouble 
 
 T' explain in which they're living, as to you I 
 And this it is makes all the hubble-bubble, 
 
 For who can fairly write a bard's biography, 
 
 When, of his/ancy-world, there's no geography 1 
 
350 AVILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 ix. 
 
 Jules was at perfect liberty in fact 
 
 To love again, and still be true infancy ; 
 
 Else were this story at its closing act, 
 
 Nay, he in fact might wed, and in romance he 
 
 Might find the qualities his sposa lack'd — 
 (A truth that I could easier make a man see,) 
 
 And woman's great mistake, if I may tell it, is 
 
 The calling such stray fancies " infidelities." 
 
 X. 
 
 Byron was man and bard, and Lady B., 
 In wishing to monopolize him wholly, 
 
 Committed bigamy, you plainly see. 
 She, being very single, Guiccioli 
 
 Took off the odd one of the wedded three — 
 A change, 'twould seem, quite natural and holy. 
 
 The after sin, which still his fame environs. 
 
 Was giving Guiccioli hoth the Byrons. 
 
 XI. 
 
 The stem wife drove him from her. Had she loved 
 With all the woman's tenderness the while, 
 
 He had not been the wanderer he proved. 
 Like bird to sunshine fled he to a smile ; 
 
 And, lightly though the changeful fancy roved, 
 The heart speeds home with far more light a wile. 
 
 The world well tried — the sweetest thing in life 
 
 Is the unclouded welcome of a wife. 
 
Willis's poems. 35 j 
 
 To poets more than all — ^for truthful love 
 
 Has, to their finer sense, a deeper sweetness ; 
 
 Yet she who has the venturous wish to prove 
 The poet's love when nearest to completeness, 
 
 Must wed the man and let the fancy rove — 
 Loose to the air that wing of eager fleetness. 
 
 And smile it home when wearied out — with air, 
 
 But if you scold him, Madam ! have a care I 
 
 All this time the " Undying One" was singing. 
 
 She ceased, and Jules felt every sound a pain. 
 While that sweet cadence in his ear was ringing ; 
 
 So gliding from the arm of Lady Jane, 
 Which rather seem'd to have the whim of clinging, 
 
 He made himself a literary lane — 
 Punching and shoving every kind of writer 
 Till he got out. (He might have been politer.) 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Free of "the press" he wander d thronfyh the rooms. 
 
 Longing iov solitude, but studying faces ; 
 And, smitten with the ughness of Brougham's, 
 
 He mused upon the cross with monkey races--- 
 (Hieroglyphick'd on the Egyptian tombs 
 
 And shown in France with very striking traces.") 
 "Rejected" Smith's he thought a head quite glorious; 
 And Hook, all button'd up, he took for " Boreas." 
 
352 WILLISS POEMS. 
 
 He noted Lady Stepney's pretty hand, 
 
 And Barry Cornwall's sweet and serious eye ; 
 
 And saw Moore get down from his chair to stand, 
 While a most royal duke went bowing by — 
 
 Saw Savage Landor, wanting soap and sand — 
 Saw Lady Chatterton take snufiF and sigh — 
 
 Saw graceful Bulwer say " good-night," and vanish — 
 
 Heard Crofton Croker's brogue, and thought it Spanish, 
 
 He saw Smith whispering something very queer, 
 And Hay ward creep behind to overhear him ; 
 
 Saw Lockhart whistling in a lady's ear, 
 
 (Jules thought so, till, on getting very near him, 
 
 The error — not the mouth — became quite clear ;) 
 He saw " the Duke" and had a mind to cheer him_ 
 
 And fine Jane Porter with her cross and feather, 
 
 And clever Babbage, with his face of leather. 
 
 And there was plump and saucy Mrs. G-ore, 
 And calm, old, lily-white Joanna Baillie, 
 
 And frisky Bowring, London's wisest bore ; 
 And there was "devilish handsome" D'Israeli; 
 
 And not a lion of all these did roar ; 
 
 But laughing, flirting, gossiping so gaily, — 
 
 Poor Jules began to think 'twas only mockery 
 
 To talk of " Dorcelain" — 'twas a world of crockery. 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 35'^ 
 
 '^ half a pity authors should be seen I 
 
 Jules thought so, and I think so too, with Jule-^ 
 
 They'd better do the immortal with a screen, 
 And show but mortal in a world of fools ; 
 
 Men talk of " taste" for thunder — but they mean 
 Old Vulcan's apron and his dirty tools; 
 
 They flock all wonder to the Delphic shade, 
 
 To know — -just how the oracle is made I 
 
 What we should think of Bulwer's works — without liim, 
 His wife, his coat, his curls or other handle ; 
 
 "What of our Cooper, knowing naught about him, 
 Save his enchanted quill and pilgrim's sandal ; 
 
 What of old Lardner, (gracious ! how they flout him !) 
 Without this broad — (and Heavy-) side of scandal ; 
 
 What of Will Shakspeare had he kept a " Boz" 
 
 Like Johnson — would be curious questions, coz ! 
 
 Jove is, no doubt, a gainer by his cloud, 
 
 (Which ta'en away, might cause irreverent laughter,) 
 But, out of sight, he thunders ne'er so loud. 
 
 And no one asks the god to dinner after; 
 And " Fame's prond Leraple," br.ild it ne'er so proufil. 
 
 Finds notoriety a usetul rafter. 
 And when you vc l)een abused awhile, you l^arn 
 All blasts blow fair for you — thai blow astei-n! 
 
854 Willis's poems. 
 
 No '■'■'pro'"' without its "con;" — the pro is fame, 
 Pure, cold, unslander'd, like a virgin's frill; 
 
 The con is beef and mutton, sometimes game, 
 Madeira, sherry, claret, what you will ; 
 
 The ladies' (albums) striving for your name ; 
 All, (save the woodcock,) yours without a bill ; 
 
 And ''in the gate," an unbelieving Jew, 
 
 Your "Mordecai !" — Why, clearly cons your cue 1 
 
 I've " reason'd" myself neatly " round the ring," 
 While Jules came round to Lady Jane once more, 
 
 And supper being but a heavy thing, 
 
 (To lookers-on,) I'll show him to the door, 
 
 And his first night to a conclusion bring ; 
 Not (with your kind permission, sir) before 
 
 I tell you what her Ladyship said to him 
 
 As home to Brook-street her swift horses drew hin* 
 
 "You're comfortably lodged, I trust," she said . 
 
 " And Mrs. Mivart — is she hke a mother ? 
 Have you musquito curtains to your bed ? 
 
 Do you sleep well without your little brother ? 
 What do you eat for breakfast — baker's bread ? 
 
 I'll send you some home-made, if you would rather. 
 What do you do to-morrow? — say at five. 
 Or four — say four — I call for you to drive? 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 355 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 ''There's the New Garden, and the Coliseum — 
 Perhaps you don't care much for Panoramas ? 
 
 But there's an armadillo — you must see him ! 
 And those big-eyed giraflfes and heavenly lamas ! 
 
 And — are you fond of music ? — the Te Deum 
 Is beautifully play'd by Lascaramhas, 
 
 At the new Spanish chapel. This damp air ! 
 
 And you've no hat on ! — let me feel your hair I 
 
 "Poor boy!" — but Jules's head was on her breast, 
 Rock'd like a nautilus in calm mid ocean ; 
 
 And while its curls within her hands she press'd, 
 The La<ly Jane experienced some emotion : 
 
 For, did he sleep ? or wish to be caress'd ? 
 
 What meant the child ? — she'd not the slightest notion 
 
 Arrived at home, he rose, without a shake — 
 
 Trembling and slightly flush' d — but wide awake. 
 
 Loose rein ! put spur 1 and follow, gentle reader I 
 For I must take a flying leap in rhyme ; 
 
 And be to you both Jupiter and leader^ 
 Annihilating space, (we all kill time,) 
 
 And overtaking Jules in Rome, where he'd a 
 Delight or two, beside the pleasant clime. 
 
 The Lady Jane and he, (I scorn your cavils — 
 
 The Earl was with them, sir!) were on their trave'5. 
 
355 WILLISS POEMS. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 You know, perhaps, the winds are no narcotic. 
 
 As swallow'd 'twixt the Thames and Frith of Forth; 
 
 And Jules had proved a rather frail exotic — 
 Too delicate to winter so far north ; 
 
 The Earl was breaking, and half idiotic, 
 And Lady Jane's condition httle worth ; 
 
 So, through celestial Paris, (speaking victual-ly,) 
 
 They sought the sunnier clime of ill-fed Italy. 
 
 Oh Italy !— but no ! — I'll tell its faults ! 
 
 It has them, though the blood so '' nimbly capers" 
 Beneath those morning heavens and starry vaults, 
 
 That we forgot big rooms and little tapers — 
 Forget how drowsily the Romans waltz — 
 
 Forget they've neither shops nor morning papers — 
 Forget how dully sits, 'mid ancient glory, 
 This rich man's heaven- — this poor man's purgatory ! 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Fashion the world as one bad man would have it, ho 
 Would silence Harry's tongue, and Tom's, and Dick's; 
 
 And doubtless it is pleasing to depravity 
 
 To know a land where people are but sticks — 
 
 Where you've no need of fair words, flattery, suavity. 
 But spend your money, if you like, with kicks — 
 
 Where they pass by their own proud, poor nobility. 
 
 To welcome golden " Snooks" with base servility. 
 
WILLIS'S roEMS. 35*; 
 
 XXX. 
 
 JukE; Tas not ia the poor man's category — 
 So Rome's con iition never spoilt his supper. 
 
 The deuse (for hrra^ might take the Curtian glory 
 Of riding with a nution on his crupper. 
 
 He lived upon a Marquis's first story — 
 The venerable Marquis m the upper — 
 
 And found it pass'd the time, (and so would you,) 
 
 To do some thin??3 at Rome that Romans do. 
 
 The Marquis upon whom he chanced to quarter, 
 (He took his lodgings separate from the Earl,) 
 
 The Marquis had a friend, who had a daughter — 
 The friend a noble like himself, the gir/ 
 
 A diamond of the very purest water ; 
 (Or purest milk, if you prefer a pearl ;) 
 
 And these two friends, tho' poor, were hand and glove^ 
 
 And of a pride their fortunes much above. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 The Marquis had not much besides his palace, 
 The Count, beyond his daughter, simply naught; 
 
 And, one day, died this very Count Pascalis, 
 Leaving his friend his daughter, as he ought; 
 
 An;l, though the Fates had done the thing in malice, 
 The old man took her, without second thought^ 
 
 And married her. " She's freer thus," he said, 
 
 " And will b^ r-^^uii^ to marry when I'm dead." 
 
358 Willis's poems, 
 
 Meantime, she had a title, house, and carnage, 
 
 And, far from wearing chains, had newiy bur-t era — 
 
 For, as of course you know, before their marriage 
 Girls are sad prisoners by Italian custom — 
 
 Not meaning their discretion to disparage, 
 
 But just because they're sure they couldn't trust em. 
 
 When wedded, they are free enough — moreover 
 
 The marriage contract specifies one lover. 
 
 Kot that the Marchioness had one — no, no I 
 Nor wanted one. It is not my intention 
 
 I'o hint it in this tale. Jules lodged below — 
 But his vicinity's not ray invention; 
 
 And, if it seem to you more apropos 
 
 Than I have thought it worth my while to mention 
 
 Why, you think as the world did — verbum sat — 
 
 But still it needn't be so — for all that. 
 
 'Most any female neighbor, up a stair. 
 
 Occasions thought in him who lodges under; 
 
 And Jules, by accident, had walk'd in where 
 (A ^'flight too high" 's a very common blunder.) 
 
 He saw a lady whom he thought as fair 
 
 As '• from her shell rose" Mrs. Smith of Thunder. 
 
 Though Venus, I woul i say were Vulcan by. 
 
 Was no more like the Marchioness than I. 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 35^' 
 
 Fol' this grave sin there needed much remission; 
 
 And t' assure it, oft the oflfender went. 
 The Marquis had a very famous Titian, 
 
 And Jules so often came to pay his rent. 
 The old man recommended a physician, 
 
 Thinking his intellects a little bent. 
 And, pitying, he thought and talk'd about him, 
 Till, finally, he couldn't live without him. 
 
 And, much to the neglect of Lady Jane, 
 
 Jules paid him back his love ; and there, all day. 
 
 The fair young Marchioness, with fickle brain. 
 
 Tried him with changeful mood, now coy, now gaj 
 
 And the old man hved o'er his youth again, 
 Seeing those grown-up children at their play — 
 
 His wife sixteen, Jules looking scarcely more, 
 
 'Twas frolic infancy to eighty -four. 
 
 There seems less mystery in matrimony, 
 With people hving nearer the equator; 
 
 And early, like the most familiar crony, 
 Unheralded by butler, groom, or waiter, 
 
 Jules join'd the Marquis at his macaroni, — 
 The Marchioness fit toast and coffee later; 
 
 And if his heart throbb'd wild sometimes, he liid il 
 
 And if het dress required "doing" — JiJ it. 
 30 
 
360 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 Now, though thb Marchioness in church did faint once, 
 And, as Jules bore her out, they didn't group ill; 
 
 And though the spouses (as a pair) were quaint ones — 
 She scarce a woman, and his age octuple — 
 
 'Twas odd, extremely odd, of their acquaintance, 
 To call Jules lover with so little scruple ! 
 
 He'd a caressing way — but la ! you know it's 
 
 A sort of manner natural to poets ! 
 
 God made them prodigal in their bestowing ; 
 
 And, if their smiles were riches, few were pooi-I 
 They turn to all the sunshine that is going — 
 
 Swoop merrily at all that shows a lure — 
 Their love at heart and lips is overflowing — 
 
 Their motto, " Trust the future — now is sure !" 
 Their natural pulse is high intoxication — 
 (Sober'd by debt and mortal botheration.) 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Of such men's pain and pleasure, hope and passion, 
 The symptoms are not read by " those who run;" 
 
 And 'tis a pity it were not the fashion 
 
 To count them but as children of the sun — 
 
 Not to be baited like the " bulls of Bashan," 
 Nor liable, like clods, for '' one pound one" — 
 
 ]3ut reverenced — as Indians rev'rence fools — 
 
 Inspired, tho' Grod knows how. Well — such was Jules. 
 
Willis's poems. 36 i 
 
 XLII. 
 
 The Marquis thought him sunshine at the window- 
 The window of his heart — and let him in! 
 
 The Marchioness loved sunshine like a Hiniloo, 
 And she thought loving him could be no sin; 
 
 And as she loved not yet as those who sin do, 
 'Twas very well — was't not? Stick there a pin! 
 
 It strikes me that so lar — to this last stanza — 
 
 The hero seems a well-disposed young man, sir ! 
 
 I have not bored you much with his " abilities," 
 Though I set out to treat you to a poet, 
 
 The first course commonly is "puerilities" — 
 (A soup well-pepper'd — all the critics know it!) 
 
 Brought in quite hot. (The simple way to chill it is, 
 For "spoons" to stir, and puffy lips to blow it.) 
 
 Then, poet stuff'd, and by his kidney roasted, 
 
 And last (with ^^ lagrima") " the devil" toasted. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 ligh-scream between the devil and the roast, 
 But no Sham-pain! Hold there! the fit is o'er. 
 
 Ohsta principiis — one pun breeds a host — 
 (Alarmingly prolific for a bore!) 
 
 But he who never bins can little boast 
 
 Compared to him who goes and sins no more! 
 
 The "sinful Mary" walks more white in heaven 
 
 Than some who never " sinn'd and were forjriven ! ' 
 
362 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 Jules had objections very strong to playing 
 
 His character of poet — therefore I 
 Have rather dropp'd that thread, as I was saying. 
 
 But though he'd neither phrensy in his eye, 
 Nor much of outer mark the bard betraying — 
 
 (A thing he piqued himself on, by the by — ) 
 His conversation frequently arose 
 To what was thought a goodly flight for prose. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 His heau ideal was to sink the attic, 
 
 (Though not by birth, nor taste, " the salt above" — ) 
 To pitilessly cut the air erratic 
 
 Which ladies, fond of authors, so much love. 
 And be, in style, calm, cold, aristocratic — 
 
 Serene in faultless boots and primrose glove. 
 But th' exclusive's made of starch, not honey ! 
 And Jules was cordial, joyous, frank, and funny. 
 
 This was one secret of his popularity. 
 
 Men hate a manner colder than their own. 
 
 And ladies — bless their hearts ! love chaste hilarity 
 Better than sentiment — if truth were known I 
 
 And Jules had one more slight peculiarity — 
 He'd little '* approbativeness" — or none — 
 
 And what the critics said concern'd him little — 
 
 Provided it touch'd not his drink and victual. 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 363' 
 
 Critics, I say — of course he was in print — 
 " Poems," of course — of course " anonymous"- 
 
 Of course he found a publisher by dint 
 Of search most diligent, and far more fuss 
 
 Than chemists make in melting you a flint. 
 Since that experiment he reckons plus 
 
 Better manure than minus for his bays — 
 
 In short, seeks immortality — " that pays." 
 
 He writes in prose — the public like it better. 
 
 Well — let the public ! You may take a poet, 
 And he shall write his grandmother a letter, 
 
 And, if he's any thing hut rhyme — he'll show it. 
 Prose may be poetry without its fetter, 
 
 And be it pun or pathos, high or low wit, 
 The thread will show its gold, however twisted — 
 t wish the public flatter'd me that this did !) 
 
 To doubt there's pleasant stuff that ill unravels, 
 I fancy most of Moore's would read so-so, 
 
 Done into prose of pious Mr. Flavel's — 
 (That is my Sunday reading — so I know,) 
 
 Yet there's Childe Harold — excellent good travels 
 And what could spoil sweet Robinson Crusoe 1 
 
 But though a closer verse-r, makes a prose-r^ 
 
 About the vice-versa^ I don't know, sir 1 
 30* 
 
364 Willis's poems 
 
 LI. 
 
 Verser^s a better word than versifier , 
 
 (Unless 'tis verse on fire, you mean to say,) 
 
 And I've long thought there's something to desire 
 In poet's nomenclature, by the way. 
 
 It sounds but queer to laud '' the well-known lyre^^ — 
 Call a dog " poet I" he will run away — 
 
 And "songster," "rhymester," ''bard," and " poetaster, ' 
 
 Are customers they're shy of at the Astor. 
 
 A "scribbler's'' is a skittish reputation, 
 
 A.nd weighs a man down like a hod of mortar. 
 
 Commend a suitor's wit, imagination — 
 
 The merchant may think of him for his daughter 
 
 But say that "he writes poetry" n ! 
 
 Her " Pa" would rather throw her in the water I 
 
 And yet when poets wed, as facts will prove, 
 
 Their bills stand all at pa, they much above ! 
 
 Jules had a hundred minds to cut the muses ; 
 
 And sometimes did, " forever !" — (for a week!) 
 He found for time so many other uses. 
 
 His superfluity was his physique ; 
 And exercise, if violent, induces 
 
 Blood to the head and flush upon the cheek; 
 And, (though details are neither here nor there,) 
 Makes a man sit uneasy on his chair. 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. S65 
 
 LIV. 
 
 Particularly that of breaking horses. 
 
 The rate of circulation in the blood, 
 Best suited to the meditative forces, 
 
 Is quite as far from mercury as mud — 
 That of the starry, not the racing courses. 
 
 No man can trim his style 'mid fire and flood, 
 T^ov in a passion, nor just after marriage ; 
 A.nd as, to Caesar's writing in his carriage, 
 
 Credai Judaeus I Thought is free and easy ; 
 
 But language, unless wrought with labor limcB, 
 Is not the kind of thing, sir, that would please ye ! 
 
 The bee makes honey, but his oil is thymy, 
 And nothing is well done until it tease ye ; 
 
 (Tho' if there's one who would 'twere not so, I'm he !) 
 Now Jules, I say, found out that filly-breaking. 
 Though monstrous fun, was not the poet's making. 
 
 True — some drink up ta composition's glow ; 
 
 Some talk up to it — vide Neckar's daughter I 
 But when the temperature's a fourth too low. 
 
 Of course you make up the deficient quarter 1 
 Like Byron's atmosphere, wliich, chenjists kuov/. 
 
 Required hydrogen — (mOre gin and water.) 
 And Jules's sanguine humor was too high, 
 So, of the bottle he had need be shy ! 
 
ct06 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 LYIL 
 
 And of society, which made him thin 
 With fret and fever, and of sunny sky-— 
 
 Father of idleness, the poet's sin 1 
 
 (John Bull should be industrious, by the by. 
 
 If clouds without concentrate thought within,) 
 In short, the lad could fag — (I mean soar high) — 
 
 Only by habits, which (if Heaven would let her choose} 
 
 FTia mother would bequeath as Christian virtues 1 
 
 Kow men have oft been liken'd unto streams •, 
 (And, truly, both are prone to run down hill, 
 
 A nd seldom brawl when dry, or so it seems I) 
 And Jules, when he had brooded, long and stili, 
 
 At the dim fountain of the poet's dreams. 
 Felt suddenly his veins with phrensy fill ; 
 
 And, urged, as by the torrent's headlong force^ 
 
 Ruthlessly rode — if he could find a horse. 
 
 Yes, sir — he had liis freshets like a river, 
 And horses were liis passion — so he rode, 
 
 When he his prison'd spirits would deliver, 
 
 As if he fled from — some man whom he owed- 
 
 And glorious, to him, the bounding quiver 
 Of the young steed in terror first bestrode 1 
 
 Thrilling as inspiration the delay — 
 
 The arrowy spring — the fiery flight away I 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 361 
 
 LX. 
 
 Such riding galls the Muses (though we know- 
 Old Pegasus's build is short and stocky,) 
 
 But I'd a mind by these details to show 
 
 What Jules might turn out, were the Muses baulky 
 
 Tliis hint to his biographer I throw — 
 
 In Jules, the bard, was spoil'd a famous jockey 1 
 
 Though not at all to imitate Apollo I 
 
 Horse him as well, he'd beat that dabster hollow I 
 
 'Tis one of the properties of story 
 
 To mark the change in heroes, stage by stage ; 
 And therefore I have tried to lay before ye 
 
 The qualities of Jul-es's second age. 
 It should wind up with some memento morv — 
 
 But we'll defer that till we draw the sage. 
 The moral's the last thing, (I say with pain,) 
 And now let's turn awhile to Lady Jane. 
 
 The Earl, I've said, was in his idiocy, 
 
 And Lady Jane not well. They therefore hired 
 The summer palace of Rospighosi, 
 
 To get the sun as well as be retired. 
 You shouldn't fail, I think, this spot to go see — 
 
 That's if you care to have your fancy fired — 
 It's out of Rome— it strikes me on a steep hill— = 
 A sort of place to go to with nice people- 
 
368 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 Lxni. 
 
 It loofcs affectionate, with all its splendor — 
 As loveable a place as ever look'd a nest J 
 
 A palace, I protest, that makes you tender, 
 And long for fol de rol, and all the rest. 
 
 Guido's Aurora's there — you couldn't mend her: 
 And Samson, by Caracci — not his best ; 
 
 But pictures, I can talk of to the million — 
 
 To you^ I'll just describe one small pavillion. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 It's in the garden just below the palace ; 
 
 I think upon the second terrace — no — 
 The first — yes, 'tis the first — the orange alleys 
 
 Lead from the first flight down — precisely so I 
 Well — ^half-way is a fountain, where, with malice 
 
 In all his looks, a Cupid — 'hem ! you know 
 You need'nt notice that — you hurry by. 
 And lo ! a fairy structure fills your eye. 
 
 A crescent colonnade folds in the sun. 
 
 To keep it for the wooing South wind only — 
 
 A thing I wonder is not oftener done, 
 
 (The crescent, not the wooing — that's my own lie,) 
 
 For there are months, and January's one, 
 
 When winds are chill, and life in-doors gets lonely, 
 
 Atd one quite longs, if wind would keep away, 
 
 To &ing i' the sunshine, hke old King Rene. 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 369 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 The columns are of marble, white as light : 
 The structure low, yet airy, and the floor 
 
 A tesselated pavement, curious quite, — 
 Of the same fashion in and out of door. 
 
 The Lady Jane, who kept not warm by sight, 
 Had carpeted this pavement snugly o'er. 
 
 And introduced a stove, (an open Rumford) — 
 
 So the pavillion had an air of comfort. 
 
 " The frescoes on the ceihng really breathe," 
 
 The guide-books say. Of course they really see ; 
 
 And, as I tell you what went on beneath. 
 Of course those naked goddesses told me. 
 
 They saw two rows of dazzling English teeth, 
 
 Employ'd, each morn, on "English toast and tea;" 
 
 And once, when Jules came in, they strain'd their eyes. 
 
 But didn't see the teeth, to their surprise. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 The Lady Jane smiled not. Her lashes hung 
 Low to the" soft eye, and so still they lay, 
 
 Jules knew a tear was hid their threads among. 
 And that she fear'd 'twould gush and steal away. 
 
 The kindly greeting trembled on her tongue. 
 
 The hand's faint pressure chill'd liis touch like clay, 
 
 And Jules with wonder felt the world all changing, 
 
 With but the cloud of one fond heart's estranging. 
 
370 WILLISS POEslS. 
 
 Oh, it is darkness to lose love ! — ^howe'er 
 
 We little prize the fond heart — fond no more i 
 
 The bird, dark-wing'd on earth, looks white in air I 
 Unrecognized are angels, till they soar ! 
 
 And few so rich they may not well beware 
 Of lightly losing the heart's golden ore ! 
 
 Tet — hast thou love too poor for thy possessing ?— - 
 
 Loose it, like friends to death, with kiss and blessing ! 
 
 LXX. 
 
 You're naturally surprised, that Lady Jane 
 
 Loved Mr. Jules. (He's Afr. now — not Master /) 
 
 The fact's abruptly introduced, it's plain ; 
 And possibly I should have made it last a 
 
 Whole Canto, more or less — but I'll explain. 
 Lumping the sentiment one gets on faster I 
 
 Tliough it's in narrative an art quite subtle, 
 
 To work all even, like a weaver's shuttle. 
 
 Good " characters" in tales are " well brought up"- 
 (Though, by this rule, my Countess Pasibleu 
 
 Is a bad character — yet, just to sup, 
 
 I much prefer her house to a church pew — ) 
 
 But, pouring verse for readers, cup by cup, — 
 So much a week, — what is a man to do ? 
 
 " ^Tis luish'd that if a story you hegin, youd 
 
 Make separate scenes of each ' to he continued.^ ' 
 
WILLIS S P OEMS. 37J 
 
 Lxxn. 
 
 So writes plain "Jonathan," w'lo tills my brains 
 With view to crop — (the seed being ready iiioaey — 
 
 And if the "small-lot system" brings him gains, 
 He has a right to fence oflF grave from funny — 
 
 "Working me up, as 'twere, in window-panes. 
 
 And, I must own, where one has room to run, he 
 
 Is apt, as Cooper does, to spread it thin, 
 
 So now I'll go to lumping it again I 
 
 Lxxni. 
 
 "Love grows, by what" it gives to feed another, 
 And not by what " it feeds on." 'Tis divine. 
 
 If any thing's divine besides the mother 
 Whose breast, self-blessing, is its holy sign. 
 
 Much better than a sister loves a brother 
 
 The Lady Jane loved Jules, and " line by line, 
 
 Precept by precept," furnish'd him advice; 
 
 Also much other stuff he thought more nice. 
 
 IXXIV. 
 
 She got him into sundry pleasant clubs, 
 
 By pains that women can take, though but few will! 
 She made most of him when he got most rubs ; 
 
 And once, in an inevitable duel, 
 She follow'd him alone to Wormwood Scrubs — 
 
 But not to hinder I Faith ! she was a jewel 1 
 I wish the star all manner of festivity 
 That shone upon her Ladyship's nativity I 
 31 
 
S12 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 All sorts of enviable invitations, 
 
 Tickets, and privileges got she him ; 
 Gave him much satin waistcoat, work'd with patience, 
 
 (Becoming to a youth so jimp and slim) — 
 Cut for his sake some prejudiced relations, 
 
 And found for him in church the psalm and hymn; 
 Sent to his "den" some things not found in Daniel's, 
 And kept him in kid gloves, cologne, and flannels. 
 
 LXXVI, 
 
 To set him down upon her way chez elle^ 
 She stay'd unreasonably late at parties ; 
 
 To introduce him to a waltzing belle 
 She sometimes made a cessio dignitatis ; 
 
 And one kind office more that I must tell — 
 
 She' sent her maid, (and very stern your heart is 
 
 If charity like this you find a sin in,) 
 
 In church-time, privately, to air his linen. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 "Was Jules ungrateful ? No 1 Was he obtuse ? 
 
 Did he believe that women's hearts were flowing 
 With tenderness, like water in a sluice, — 
 
 Like the sun shining, — ^like the breeze's blowing, — 
 And fancy thanking them was not much use ? 
 
 Had he the luck of intimately knowing 
 Another woman, quite as kind, and nicer ? 
 Had he a " friend" sah rosa ? No, sir ! Fie, sir 1 
 
T/ILLIS'S POEMS. 5 73 
 
 Lxxvni. 
 
 Then why neglect her ? Having :^]d he did, 
 I will explain, ap Brutus did his stab, — 
 
 (Though by my neighbors I'm already chid 
 For getting on so very Hke a crab) — 
 
 Jules didn't call, as oft as he was bid, 
 Because in Rome he didn't keep a cab — 
 
 A fact that quite explains why friendships, marriages, 
 
 A.nd other ties depend on keeping carriages. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 Without a carriage men should have no cara, 
 Nor " owe a call" at all — except for love. 
 
 And friends who need that you the " lean earth lard" 
 To give their memories a pasteboard shove, 
 
 On gentlemen a-foot bear rather hard ! 
 
 It's paying high for Broadway balls, by Jove I 
 
 To walk next day half way to Massachusett 
 
 And leave your name — on ladies that won't use it 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 It really should be taught in infant school 
 That the majority means men, not dollars , 
 
 And, therefore, that to let the rich makes rules, 
 Is silly in " poor pretty little scholars." 
 
 And this you see is apropos of Jules, 
 Who call'd as frequently as richer callers 
 
 While he'd a cab,' — but courtesy's half horse— i. 
 
 A secret those who ride keep snug, of course. 
 
374 WILLIS'S FOLdJMS. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 I say while he was Centaur, (horse and man^) 
 Jules never did neglect the Lady Jane; 
 
 And, at the start, it was my settled plan, 
 
 (Though I've lost sight of it, I see with pain, ) 
 
 To show how moderate attentions can. 
 If once she love, a woman's heart retain. 
 
 True love is weak and humble, though so brittle; 
 
 And asks, 'tis wonderful how very little ! 
 
 For instance — Jules's every day routine 
 
 Was, breakfast at his lodgings, rather early ; 
 
 A short walk in the nearest Park, the Green ; 
 (Where, if address'd, he was extremely surly ,) 
 
 Pive minutes at the Club, perhaps fifteen; 
 Then giving his fine silk moustache a curl, he 
 
 Stepp'd in his cab and drove to Belgrave Square, 
 
 Where he walk'd in with quite a household air. 
 
 And here he pass'd an hour — or two, or three — 
 Just as it served his purpose, or his whim ; 
 
 And sweeter haunt on earth could scarcely be 
 Than that still boudoir, rose-lit, scented, dim — 
 
 Its mistress, elsewhere all simplicity, 
 
 Dress'd ever sumptuously {here — for him ! 
 
 With all that taste could mould, or gold could buy, 
 
 Pampering fondly his reluctant eye. 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. ;^75 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 And on the silken cushions at her feet 
 
 He daily dream'd these morning hours away, 
 
 ITroubhng himself but little to be sweet. 
 Poets are fond of revery, they say, 
 
 But not with ladies whom they rarely meet. 
 And, if you love one, madam, (us you may I) 
 
 And wish his wings to pin as with a skewer, 
 
 Be careful of all manner of toujour si 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 " Toujours perdrix" snipe, woodcock, trout, or rabbit 
 
 Oflfends the simplest palate, it appears. 
 And, (if a secret, I'm disposed to blab it,) 
 
 It's much the same with smiles, sighs, quarrels, V,jars. 
 The fancy mortally abhors a habit I 
 
 (Noc that which Seraphina's bust inspheres !) 
 E'en cne-tun-,d music-boxes breed satiety. 
 Unless you keep of them a great variety. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 Daily to Jules the sun rose in the East, 
 
 And brought new milk and morning paper daily _ 
 
 The ''yield" of both the Editor and beast. 
 
 Great mysteries, . unsolved by Brown or Paley , 
 
 But Jules — not plagued about it in the least — 
 Read his gazette, and drank his tea quite gaily; 
 
 And Lady Jane's fond love and cloudless brow 
 
 Grew to be like the Editor and cow. 
 31* 
 
376 WILLIS'S POEMS, 
 
 I see you understand it. One may dash on 
 A color here — stroke there — and lo I the story I 
 
 And, speaking morally, this outline fashion 
 Befits a world so cramm'd yet transitory. 
 
 I've sketch'd for you a deep and tranquil passion 
 I^mdled while nursing up a bard for glory ; 
 
 And, having whisk'd you for that end to London, 
 
 Let's back to Italy, and see it undone. 
 
 Lxxxvm. 
 
 Fair were the frescoes of Rospigliosi — 
 Bright the Italian sunshine on the wall — 
 
 The day delicious and the room quite cozy — 
 And yet there were two bosoms full of gall ! 
 
 So lurks the thorn in paths long, soft, and rosy 1 
 Jules was not one whom trifles could appal, 
 
 But few things will make creep the lion's mane 
 
 Like ladies in a mifif who won't explain ! 
 
 Now T have seen a hadji and a cadi — 
 
 Have sojourn' d among strangers, oft and long- 
 Have known most sorts of women, f lir and shady. 
 
 And mingled in most kinds of mortal throng — 
 But, in my life, I never saw a lady 
 
 Who had, the least, the air of being wrong I 
 The fact is, there's a nameless grace in evil 
 V/e never caught — 'twas she who saw the devil 1 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 377 
 
 In pedigree of sin we're mere beginners — 
 For what was Adam to the " morning star ?" 
 
 She would take precedence — if sins were dinners, 
 And hence that self-assured "de haut en has" 
 
 So unattainable by men, as sinners. 
 
 Of course, she plays the devil in a fracas — 
 
 Frowns better, looks more innocent, talks faster, 
 
 And argues like her grandmother s old master I 
 
 And in proportion as the angel fades — 
 
 As love departs — the crest of woman rises — 
 
 Even in passion's softer, lighter shades, 
 With aristocracy's well-bred disguises; 
 
 For, with no tragic fury, no tirades, 
 A lady looks a man into a crisis ! 
 
 And, to 'most any animal carnivorous 
 
 Before a belle aggrieved, the Lord deliver us! 
 
 XCII. 
 
 Jules had one thing particular to say, 
 
 The morn I speak of, but, in fact, was there, 
 
 With twenty times the mind to be away. 
 Uncomfortable seem'd the stulTd arm-chair 
 
 In which the Earl would sometimes pass the dny ; 
 And there was something Roman in the air ; 
 
 For every effort to express his errand 
 
 Ended in "um 1" — as 'twere a Latin gerund. 
 
378 WILLIS'S POEMS. 
 
 xcra. 
 
 He had received a little billet-doux 
 
 The night before — as plain as A B C — 
 
 (I mean, it would appear as plain to you, 
 Though very full of meaning, you'll agree)- 
 
 Informing him that by advice quite new 
 The Earl was going now to try the sea ; 
 
 And begging him to have his passport vised 
 
 For Venice, by Bologna — if he pleased ! 
 
 Smooth as a melody of Mother Goose's 
 The gentle. missive elegantly ran — 
 
 A sort of note the writer don't care who sees, 
 For you may pick a flaw in't if you can — 
 
 But yet a stern experimentum crucis, 
 
 Quite in the style of Metternich, or Yan, — 
 
 And meant — without more flummery or fuss — 
 
 Stay with your Marchioness — or come with its / 
 
 Here was to be " a parting such as wrings 
 The blood from out young hearts" — for Jules would stay I 
 
 The bird she took unfledged had got its wings, 
 And, though its cage be gold, it must away ! 
 
 But this, and similar high-color'd things. 
 Refinement makes it difficult to say; 
 
 For, higher " high hfe" is, (this side an attic,) 
 
 The more it shrinks from all that looks dramatiCo 
 
WILLIS'S POEMS. 3" 9 
 
 XCVT. 
 
 Hence, words grow colJ as agony grows lot, 
 'Twixt those who see in ridicule a Hades ; 
 
 And though the truth but coldly end the plot, 
 (There really is no pathos for you, ladies !) 
 
 Jules cast the die with simply " I think not 1" 
 
 And her few words were guarded as he made hia^ 
 
 Por rank has one cold law of Moloch's makinp-— 
 
 Death, before outcry, while the heart is breaking ! 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 She could not tell that boy how hot the tear 
 That seem'd within her eyeball to have died — 
 
 She could not tell him her exalted sphere 
 Had not a hope his boyish love beside : 
 
 The grave of anguish is a human ear — 
 Hers lay unburied in a pall of pride I 
 
 And life, for her, thenceforth, was cold and lonely, 
 
 With her heart lock'd in that dumb sorrow only 1 
 
 Calm, in her " pride of place," moves Lady Jane- 
 Paler, but beautifully pale, and cold — 
 
 So cold, the gazer believes joy nor pain 
 Has o'er that pulse of marble ever roll'd. 
 
 She loved too late to dream of love again, 
 And rich, fair, noble, and alone, grows old I 
 
 A star, on which a spirit had alighted 
 
 Once, in all time, were hke a life so blighted ! 
 
f: 
 
 380 WILLIS'S POEMS 
 
 So, from the poet's woof was broke a thread 
 Which we have follow'd ia its rosy weaving i 
 
 Yet merrily, still on, the shuttle sped. 
 
 Jules was not made of stuff to die of grieving; 
 
 But, that an angel from his path had fled, 
 He was not long in mournfully believing. 
 
 And " angel watch and ward" had fled with her- 
 
 For, virtuously loved, 'tis hard to err I 
 
 Poets are moths, (or so some poet sings, 
 
 Or so some pleasant allegory goes,) 
 And Jules at many a bright hght burnt his wings. 
 
 His first chaste scorching the foregoing shows ; 
 But, while one passion best in metre rings. 
 
 Another is best told in lucid prose. 
 As to the Marchioness, I've half a plan, sir ! 
 To limn her in the quaint Spenserian stanza. 
 
 END. 
 
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