=f^?< f .s^ T ^/.^M. %A3 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. ^ J^ I -'i:^'^ \y ^ ^ ?ll^ Sacred Poems N. P. WILLIS. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY DARLEY, IIERPJCK. CHAPMAN, PARSONS, WHITNEY, LUMLEY, ElININGER, WHITE, AND HITCHCOCK. * * * "told of Ills biilh hv ni.'ht. Unto tliu i5liei)hci(ls a-5 tlioy w.itcbed.'" * * NEW YORK: CLARK & MAYNARD, P.UBLISHERS^ No. 5 Barclay Street. 1868. I'liU'icil according to Act of Congress, in the year ISOS, ]>y CLARK & MAYNARD, III liio Clerk's Or.icc <>f tlic District Court of the United States l..r tiie iSoutliern District of New Yorl<. Electrotypf^d by Printed hy Smith & McDougal, C. A Alvokd, F4 Beelx-man St. 15 Vandewater St. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. Nathaniel Parker Willis was born in Portland, Elaine, 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, offered 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 literature as a pursuit, and soon after his graduation, he assumed the lY BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. editorship of the " Legendary," a series of volumes of tales published by S, G. Goodrich. He next established, in Boston, the American MontJdy 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 dr:y, conducted by George P. Morris, and Mr. Willis gratified a long-cherished desire by visiting Europe. His flrst im- pressions of the Old World, received at the most enjoy- able period of life, were communicated to the Mirro^ 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 fm- BIOGIIAPIIICAL SKEJClf. V ishing the paragraph to the close. Mr. Willis was wtll received abroad, and enjoyed 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 chivah-ous spirit which did him 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 Royal 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 he lioped to pass the remainder of his days in rural and literary employment. Ilis " 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 pubhshers 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 Yisconti," and " Tortesa the Usurer," the latter of which has 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 Eoening 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 established the Home Journal^ a literary weekly, which from the outset was eminently successful. From the date of its commencement, Mr. Willis con- centrated all his efforts on this publication, the popu- laiity of which amply repaid the loving care bestowed upon 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 VIU mOGRAPniCAL SKETCH. charming essays and letters which graced the editorial columns of the Home Journal. Few American authors were known to a wider circle of readers than Mr. Willis. He came before the public for 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 Ixad won the vernal honors Avhich 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 spirits as the morning- star of a new poetical day ; Pieipont had gathered bright laurels on the banks where " Hermon sheds its dews," and "decked his couch with Sharon's deatJiless rose." Everett had returned from his quest of knowledge in distant lands, radi-ant with enthusiasm and hope; Chan- 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 BIOGKAPHICAL 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. Willis 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. His success X BIOGRAPHICAL SKliTCII. 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 suflfei-- 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 hon-mots, and the writer of frivo'ous 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 his 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 was open wide even to the casual visitor, and to ''the men who sought him he was sweet as summer." Free from the faintest spark of literary jealousy, he took no part in the "quarrels of authors,'' looked with cheerful com- placency on the success of his rivals, and always had a friendly word for the youthful aspirants who were strug- gUng in the lists for distinction in letters. His sympathy with their first timid efforts was often their stepping-stone to renown. He will be remembered, not as a philosopher or a celestial 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 later 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 Daughter of .Tairus 17 The Lepek 21 David's Grief for his Child 27 The Sacrifice of Abraham 32 The Shun AMITE 36 Jephthah's Daughter 40 Absalom 44 Christ's Entrance into Jekusalkm 48 Baptism of Christ 51 Scene in Gethsemane 53 The Widow of Nain 55 Hagak in the Wilderness 58 Kizpaii with her Sons, (the day before they were hanged ON GiBEAIl) 63 Lazarus and Mary 66 Christ blessing little Childken 73 Christ's Mothkr 78 Hannah and Samuei 81 A Bible Story for Mothers 86 Thoughts while making the Grave of a new born Child... 90 On the Departure of the Rev. Mr. White from his Parish, WHEN chosen President of Wabash College 02 BiBTH-DAY VbUSES 95 XIV CONTENTS. PAGE 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 Mother thuougu THE Wood 107 Contemplation lOB On THE Death of a Missionary 110 On the Picture of a '* Child tired of Play" 113 A Child's First Lmpression of a Star 115 On witnessing a Baptism 116 Heveiue at Glenmarv 117 To A City Pigeon 119 The Belfry Pigeon 119 Saturday Afternoon 1"21 The Sabbath 122 Dedication Hymn 124 Hymn 125 SACRED POEMS SACRED POEMS THE HEALING OF THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS. 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 Euler, and her breas'-, 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 hfted 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 unlil 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 sliglit hand he held Had ceased its pressure — and he could not hear, 2* 18 1 V I L L I S ' S POEMS. In the dead, utter silence, 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. * * * '•' "^ * .t. * * * * It was night — And, softly, o'er the Sea of Galilee, 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 pa: ted meekly on his brow. And the long curls from off his 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. 10 As on his words entrancedly they hung, 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 shnmk 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 Hds, and murmur'd low, ^^ Master ! my daughter T — ***** ^k ****** ^i^Q 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 them on. With hushing steps He trod the winding stair ; but ere he touch'd The latchet, from within a whisper came. 2C WILLIS'S POEMS. " Trouble the Master not— for she is dead /" And his faint hand fiell 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 — hut sleepeth.'^ They passed in. The spice-lamps in the alabaster urns Burned dimly, and the white and fragrant smoke Carl'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 face ; 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. The breathing curve was mockingly like life ; 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 hunj 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 beaming countenance— arose 1 21 THE LEPER " Room for the leper ! Room 1" And, as he came. The cry pass'd on—" Room for the leper ! Room !" Sunrise was slanting on the city gates 22 WILLIS'S POEMS. 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 !" 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 slow, And with a difficult utterance, like one Whose heart is with an iron nerve put down. Crying, "Unclean I Unclean!" '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 P O K M S . 23 Follow'd with benisons — and this was he ! With the soft airs of summer there had come A torpor on 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 moan Taking the place of the clear silver key ; And brain and sense grew faint, as if the hght 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 livid 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 ! Day 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 the 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 God ! 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 ! 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 Yoices 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 ; Nor rest thee where the covert fountains hide ; WILLIS'S POEMS. 25 Nor kneel thee 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 browse th 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 1 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 God had cursed the leper! 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 1" 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. 27 Touch'd with the open innocence of a child • His eye was 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 eyelids of the king. And David woke. And robed himself, and pray'd. The inmates, now, Of the vast palace were astir, and feet Glided along the tesselated floors With a pervading murmur, 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. WILLIS'S POEMS. The fragrant strife of sunshine with the morn Sweeten'd the air to ecstasy 1 and now The king's wont was to lie 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-lift 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, Rosy 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 ! — And this was like his mother. David's lips Moved with unutter'd blessings, and awhile He closed the lids upon his moisten' d eyes, WILLIS'S POE^IS. 5 And, with tlie round cheek of the nestUng boy Press'd to his bosom, sat as if afraid That but the hfting of his hds might jar The heart-cup's over-fuhiess. 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, llie servant bowed himself to earth, and said, "Nathan the prophet cometh from the Lord !" And David's lips grew wliite, 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 lingeringly 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. so WILLIS'S POEMS. It was the morning of the seventh day. A hush was in the palace, for all eyes Had woke before the morn ; and they who di'ew 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 on his mother's breast His locks Slept at the lips of Bathsheba unstirrM — 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 ! But when the kin^ Heard not the voice of the complaining child, Nor breath from out the room, nor foot astir — WILLIS'S POEMS. 3} 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 caress, In loving utterance all broke with tears. Spoke as his heart would speak if he were there, And fiU'd his prayer with agony. God I To thy bright mercy-seat the way is far ! How fail the weak words while the heart keeps on I 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 Bose 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 fortli, And, gathering with fearful looks apart. Whispered together. And the king arose And jrazcd on them a moment, and with voice .S2 >V I L L i S ' S POEMS, Of quick, uncertain utterance, he ask'd, " Is the child dead ?" Tliey answer'd, " He is dead T But when they look'd to see him fall 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, " Wierefo7~e mourn ? The child is dead, and I shall go to him — But he will not return to me." 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 mnjestic master, sleeps. As yet WILLIS'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 God, 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 ! 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 liis 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 sua throwing back the old mfn's shade In straight and fair proportions, as of one Wliose years were freshly number'd. He stood up. Tall in his vigorous strength ; and, like a tree Eooted 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 rode on in heaven. The dew stole up From the fresh daughters of the earth, and heat Came like a sleep upon the deUcate 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 vraters 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 brow. 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, to 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 strength. 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. * * * * ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ * He rose tip, and laid The wood upon the altar. All was done. He stoofl a moment — and a deep, quick flush 36 WILLIS'S POEMS, Pass'd o'er his countenance ; and then he nerved His spirit with a bitter strength, and spoke — " Isaac ! my only son !" — The boy look'd up : " Wiiere is the lamb, my father ?" — Oh the tones. The sweet, famihar 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 I 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 fointed, and the pulse Of nature had run down, and ceased to beat. " Haste thee, my child l" the Syrian mother said, " Thy father is athirst"— and, from the depths \V I L L I 8 8 P O E AI S , 3 < Oi the cool well under the leaning tree, She drew refreshing water, and with thought'3 Of God's sweet goodness stirrhig at her heart, She bless'd her beautiful boy, and to his way Committed him. And he went lightly on, With his soft hands press'd closely to the cool Stone vessel, and his little naked feet Lifted with watchful care ; and o'er the hills, And through the light green hollows where the iambs Go for the tender grass, he kept his way, Wiling its distance with his simple thoughts. Till, in the wilderness of sheaves, with broAvs 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 reapei''s places, and bound up His tiny sheaves, and plaited cunningly The p'iant Aviths 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 breasx Heaving with the suppression of a cry, He utter'd a faint murmur, And fell back Upon the loosenM sh^afj iriserisible. 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 listless eye. And she had laid back .all his sunny curls And kiss'd his delicate hp, 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'd 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 God 1 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 thai there r Willis's poems. 39 — And should I not have felt that he would die ? And have I not wept over him ? — and praj'd Morning and night for him ? and could he die ? — No — God will keep him ! 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 !" 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 lip, 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 prayer 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 son!' 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, she lifted him and heM him close 40 Willis's poems. Into her bosom — with a mother's thought — As if death had no power to touch him tliere ! ********* Tlie 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 arras Folded about her neck, and his warm breath Breathing upon her lips, and in her ear Tlie music of his gentle voice once more! JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER. She stood befoi'e her father's gorgeous tent, To listen for his coming. Her loose hair Was resting on her shoulders, like a cloud Floating around a statue, and the wind, Just swaying her light robe, reveal'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 if lisfht had fallen oflT, A>- I L L I S S POEMS. 41' Its surface was so polish'd. She was stilling Her light, quick breath, to hear; and the white 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 Returning 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 tro I 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 Aud elevated brow, and godlike frame ; Lifting his crest in triumph — for his heel Hath trod the dying like a wmc-press dow.i ! The mighty Jephthah led his warriors on Through Mizpeh's streets. His helm was proudly set And his stern lip ourl'd slightly, as if pr.'iiso 4* 42 W I r> L 1 S ' S P O E M s . 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 swai'thy 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 with his pride. He gazed intently forward. The tall firs Before his door were motionless. The leaves Of the sw(;et 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. Ohj how beautifid ! — Her proud -eye flashing like a sun-lit gem — ^^• 1 1- L I s s POEMS. 43 A.nd her luxuriant hair! — 'twas Uke the sweep Of a dark wing in visions. 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 he answer'd not. She stood and gazed upon him. Was he wi oth ? There was no anger in that blood-shot eye. Had sickness seized him ? She unclasp'd his helm. And laid her white hand gently on his brow, And the large veins felt stiff 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 momentary flush Shot o'er her countenance; and then the soul Of Jephthah's daughter waken'd ; and she stood Calmly and nobly up, and said 'twas well — And she would die. "■ * * "■ * The sun had well nigh set. The fire was on the altar ; and the priest Of the High God was theie. 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 WILLISS POEMS. Was pale, but veiy 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 iow On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curl'd Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still, Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse. The reeds bent down the stream ; the willow leaves With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide. Forgot the lifting Avinds ; and the long stems, Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse, Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way, Ani lean d, in graceful attitudes, to rest. How strikingly the course of nature tells. By its light heed of Imman 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 little rest WILLIS'S r o p: M s. 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 Rose up in heaven, he knelt among there. And bovv'd his head upon his hands to pray. Oh 1 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 Grew 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 Sank to the still proportions, they betray'd The matchless symmetry of Absalom. 46 W 1 LLI S'S P O E M S. 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, soil'd With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid. Reversed, beside him : and the jewell'd hilt, Whose diamonds lit tlie 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 fear'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 h'=5 few followers. And left him with his dead. The king stood still Till the last echo died ; then, throwing off The sackcloth from his brow, and laying 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 ! That death should settle in thy glorious eye. And leave his stillness in this clustering hair I 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 /' fiom 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; — Bat thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shall come To meet me, Absalom ! " And oh I 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 last deep token ! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom ! " And now, farewell ! 'Tis hard to give thee up, With death so like 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, liome. My lost boy, Absalom !" iJ^ 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 God- He rose up calmly, and composed the pail Firmly and decently — and left him there — As if liis 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 gar:nents 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 np Blount Olivet. The woods WILLIS'S POEMS. 49 Through their cool shadows freshly to the west, And tlie light foal, with quick aud toiling step, And head bent low, kept its unslacken'd way Till its soft mane was lifted by the wind Sent 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 I 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 earth ; 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 heayenly tenderness, 5 50 WILLIS'S POIiMS. 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 nmst pierce His forehead — of the buffet on the cheek — The scourge, the mocking homage, the foul scorn ! Gethsemane stood out beneath his eye Clear in the morning sun, and there, he knew. While they who " could not watch with him one hour" Were sleeping, he should sweat great drops of blood. Praying the " cup might pass." And Golgotha Stood bare and desert by the city wall. 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 faiutness swimming iu 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 unto this ? WILLIS'S POEMS. 51 BAPTISM OF CHRIST. It was a green spot in the wilderness, Touch'd by the river Jordan. The dark pine 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 hght, 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 breast-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. 52 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 heai'ts 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 Grhost." And lo ! while 3^et 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 Girt with a mantle, and his perfect limbs, In their angelic slightness, nieek 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; For 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 FoUow'd his Master's steps — when, lo ! a light. WILLIS'S POEMS. 63 Bright as the tenfold glory of the sun, Yet lambent as the softly burning stars, Envelop'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 Soy 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 GETHSEMATVE. The moon was shming yet. The Orient's brow Set with the morning-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. G-ethsemane, With its bathed leaves of silver, seem'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 5* 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 Uttle 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 ! . The Saviour felt its quiet in his soul ; And though his strength was weakness, and the light Which led him on till now was sorely dim. He breathed a new submission — " Not my will. But thine be done, oh Father 1" As he spoke, Voices were heard in heaven, and music stolo Out from the chambers of the vaulted sky As if the stars were swept like instr-uments. 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 1 L L I S S POEMS. 55 It was enough — and with his godUke 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 N A I N . The Roman sentinel stood hehn'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 fjr a tributary Jew, And slumberously dozed on. 'Twas now high noon. The dull, low raurnmr of a funeral Went through the city — the sad sound of feet Unmix'd with voices — and the sentinel 56 WILLIS'S POEMS. Shook off his slumber, and gazed earnestly Up the wide streets along whose paved way The 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 spsar-point downwards as the bearers pass'd, Baniing beneath their burden. There was one — Only one mourner. Close behind the bier, Cmmpling the pall up in her wither'd hands, FoUow'd an aged woman. Her short steps Falter'd with weakness, and a broken moan Fell from her lips, thicken'd convulsively As her heart bled afresh. The pitying crowd FoUow'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 hps were pale With the noon's sultry heat. The beadc d 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 his lips by green Bethsaida's pool, 2 WILLIS'S POEMS. 57 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 Bethulia's plains The grapes of Palestine hung ripe and wild , Yet turn'd he not aside, but, gazing on, From every swelling 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 lengue 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 not!" 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. ^^ ith troubled wonder the mute throng drew dear. And gazed on his calm looks. A minute's space S8 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 Ean 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, while the mourner hung upon his neck, Jesus went calmly on his way to Nain. HAGAR IN 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 dejected 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 ■*-^.^'^-' .>- Willis's poems. 59 That pang of the unreasonable heart, That, bleeditig 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 liis light proportions would have swell'd, Had they but match'd his spirit, to the man. Why bends the patriarch as he cometh now Upon his staff so wearily ? His beard Is law upon his breast, and his high brow So written with the converse of his God, Beareth the swollen vein of agony. H'.s 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 slighted woman turn, And, as a vine the oak has shaken off, Bend lightly to her leaning trust again ? O no ! by all her loveliness — 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 petulanoa, 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 ! 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 feeling out of heaven Her pride o'ermastereth not. She went her way with a strong step and slow — Her press'd lip arch'd, and her clear eye undimmM, 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. M I I. L 1 S ' S POEMS. « I 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 brealh Of the thick pines, — and tried to comfort him ; But he Avas 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 Avould have died. 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 mourn d. " God stay thee in thine agony, my boy ! I cannot see thee die ; I cannot brook Upon thy brow to look, 6 02 ^VILLIS'S POEMS. And 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 curlmg 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 I" She stood beside the well her Grod 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 Ms mother's hand. WILLIS'S POEMS. 65 RIZPAH WITH HER SONS, (the day before they weue 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-brovv'd Armoni. The eye of Saul — The very voice and presence of the king — Limb, port, and majesty, — were present there, Mock'd like 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 hear*. 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 hU hungry mother T God stay the famine 1" ****** As he 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 — Si Willis's p o ii; m s . 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 smile was like The incarnation of some blessed dream — Its joyousness so sunn'd the gazer's eye I Eair 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 breathing fire That turns the lion back, and limbs as Mthe 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. Bat for him — the last — What had she done for heaven to be his njother! 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 come • W ILLI S'S P OEMS, 65 Too tardy sang the bird when he was gone ; She would have shut the flowers — and call'd the stat Back to the mountain-top — and bade the sun Pause at eve's golden door — to wait for him 1 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 hnk between the blessing and her prayer ! He who once wept with Mary — angels keeping Their unthank'd watch — are a foreshadowing Of what love is in hea,ven. 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 AVILLIS'S POEMS. Lit whiie your pulses by one heart kept time, And fed with faithful fondness to your grave — (Tho' sometimes with a hand stretch'd back from heaven) 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 ! Thy sons will be Elijah's ravens to thee !" [irNFINISIIED.] LAZARUS AND MARY. Jesus was there but yesterday. The prmts Of his departing feet were nt the doo;-; WILLIS'S POEMS. 67- His " Peace be with you !'" was yet audible In the rapt porch of Mary's charmed eai- ; And, in the low rooms, 'twas as if the air, Hush'd with his going forth, had been the breatl: Of angels left on watch — so conscious still The place seem'd of his presence ! Yet, withiu, 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