SKETCHES:

 BY N. P. WILLIS.

    ‘---- If I remember,
    You loved such stories once, thinking they brought
    Man to a fine and true humanity.’
                                    Barry Cornwall.

 BOSTON:
 S. G. GOODRICH, 141, WASHINGTON ST.

 MDCCCXXVII.

      DISTRICT OF MASSACHUSETTS, _to wit_:
                                    _District Clerk’s Office._

 Be it remembered, that on the thirtieth day of November, A. D. 1827,
 in the fifty second year of the Independence of the United States of
 America, _N. P. Willis_, of the said district, has deposited in this
 office the title of a book, the right whereof he claims as author, in
 the words following, _to wit_: ‘Sketches. By N. P. Willis.

    “---- If I remember,
    You loved such stories once, thinking they brought
    Man to a fine and true humanity.”
                                           Barry Cornwall.’

 In conformity to the act of the Congress of the United States,
 entitled, ‘An act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the
 copies of maps, charts, and books, to the authors and proprietors of
 such copies, during the times therein mentioned;’ and also to an act
 entitled ‘An act supplementary to an act, entitled, an act for the
 encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts, and
 books to the authors and proprietors of such copies during the times
 therein mentioned; and extending the benefits thereof to the arts of
 designing, engraving and etching historical and other prints.’

         JNO. W. DAVIS, _Clerk of the District of Massachusetts._

 BOSTON: PRESS OF THE CHRISTIAN EXAMINER.

 Stephen Foster, Printer.

 TO
 MY FATHER
 THIS VOLUME
 IS
 RESPECTFULLY AND AFFECTIONATELY
 DEDICATED.

PREFACE.

In introducing this volume to the Public, the Author would simply
remark, that it was written at different periods of a college life,
which has just expired; (the Scripture Sketches at a very early part of
it.) He has no intention of screening its faults, either of feeling or
style, beneath his ‘score of summers;’ but as prefaces are the fashion,
he has thought the mention of the fact would not be amiss in the
promotion of a proper understanding between himself and his readers.

CONTENTS.

 SKETCHES.

 The Sacrifice of Abraham                          9
 Absalom                                          14
 Hagar in the Wilderness                          20
 Jephthah’s Daughter                              26
 Idleness                                         32
 Dreams                                           34
 October                                          38
 Boyhood                                          41
 Night Sketches                                   44
 Twilight                                         49
 Dawn                                             51
 Scraps from a Journal                            53
 Better Moments                                   61
 The Hindoo Mother                                65
 Waiting for the Harvesters                       75

 FUGITIVE PIECES.

 The Soldier’s Widow                              79
 The Burial of Arnold                             81
 To Laura W----                                   84
 Sonnets                                  87, 88, 89
 Extract from a Poem Delivered at the
   Departure of the Senior Class of Yale
   College in 1826                                90
 Notes                                            95

SKETCHES.

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 tremulous forest leaf
    To her majestic master, sleeps. As yet
    There is no mist upon the deep blue sky,
    And the clear dew is on the blushing bosoms
    Of crimson roses, in a holy rest.
    How hallowed is the hour of morning! meet,
    Aye, beautifully meet, for the pure prayer.

      The patriarch standeth at his tented door,
    With his white locks uncovered. ’Tis his wont
    To gaze upon the gorgeous orient;
    And at that hour the awful majesty
    Of one 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 pencilled messengers,
    Coming in golden raiment, as if light
    Were opening a fearful scroll in heaven.
    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 watched their path so silently,
    If she had known that he was going up,
    Even in his fair-haired beauty, to be slain
    As a white lamb for sacrifice? They trod
    Together onward, patriarch and child;
    The bright sun throwing back the old man’s shade,
    In straight and fair proportions, as of one
    Erect in early vigor. He stood up
    Firm in his better 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 uncovered; and his face,
    Impressed 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 seemed 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,
    Floating 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.

      The sun rode on in heaven. The dew stole up
    Like a light veil from nature, and the heat
    Came like a sleep upon the delicate 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 his 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 off his brow,
    And spring for the light wings and gaudy flowers,
    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 bowed himself,
    And buried up his face, and prayed 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 prayed that God
    Would nerve him for that hour. Oh! man was made
    For the stern conflict. In a mother’s love
    There is more tenderness; the thousand cords
    Woven with every fibre of her heart,
    Complain, like delicate harp strings, at a breath;
    But love in man is one deep principle,
    Which, yielding not to lighter influence,
    Abides the tempest. He rose up, and laid
    The wood upon the altar. All was done.
    He stood a moment, and a vivid flush
    Passed o’er his countenance; and then he nerved
    His spirit with a bitter strength, and spoke:
    ‘Isaac! my only son!’ The boy looked up,
    And Abraham turned his face away, and wept.
    ‘Where is the lamb, my father?’ Oh! the tones,
    The sweet, the thrilling music of a child!
    How it doth agonize 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 called on God--
    And lo! God’s Angel stayed him; and he fell
    Upon his face and wept.

ABSALOM.

      The waters slept. Night’s silvery veil hung low
    On Jordan’s bosom, and the eddies curled
    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 winds; and the long stems,
    Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse,
    Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way
    And leaned in graceful attitudes to rest.
    How strikingly the course of nature tells,
    By its light heed of human suffering,
    That it was fashioned for a perfect 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
    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 gathered round him on the fresh green bank,
    And spoke their kindly words; and as the sun
    Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there,
    And bowed 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 a very mockery, how much
    The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!
    He prayed for Israel; and his voice went up
    Strongly and fervently; he prayed 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 cherished him--for him he poured,
    In agony that would not be controlled,
    Strong supplication, and forgave him there
    Before his God, for his deep sinfulness.

      The hosts were numbered. At Mahanaim’s gate
    Sat David, as the glittering thousands passed
    Forth to the battle. With a troubled eye
    He looked upon their pomp, and as the helms
    Bent low before him, and the banners swayed
    Like burnished wings to do him reverence,
    His look grew restless, and he did not wear
    The lofty sternness of a monarch’s brow.
    The leader of the host came by. His form
    Was like a son of Anak, and he strode
    Majestically on, and bore his crest
    As men were waters, and his frame a rock.
    The king rose up to Joab, and came near,
    As his tall helm was bowed; and by the love
    He bore his master, he besought him there
    That he would spare him Absalom alive.
    He passed with his stern warriors on; the trump
    And the loud cymbal died upon the ear;
    And as the king turned off his weary gaze,
    The last faint gleam had vanished, and the wood
    Of Ephraim had received a thousand men,
    To whom its pleasant shadows were a grave.

      The pall was settled. He who slept beneath
    Was straightened for the grave; and as the folds
    Sunk to the still proportions, they betrayed
    The matchless symmetry of Absalom.
    His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls
    Were floating round the tassels as they swayed
    To the admitted air, as glossy now
    As when in hours of gentle dalliance bathing
    The snowy fingers of Judea’s girls.
    His helm was at his feet; his banner, soiled
    With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid
    Reversed beside him; and the jewelled hilt,
    Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade,
    Rested like mockery on his covered brow.
    The soldiers of the king trod to and fro,
    Clad in the garb of battle, and their chief,
    The mighty Joab, stood beside his bier
    And gazed upon the dark pall stedfastly,
    As if he feared the slumberer might stir.
    A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade
    As if a trumpet rang; but the bent form
    Of David entered, and he gave command
    In a low tone to his 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 bowed his head upon him, and broke forth
    In the resistless eloquence of woe.

    ‘Alas! my noble boy, that thou shouldst die!
      Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair!
    That death should settle in thy glorious eye,
      And leave his stillness in this clustering hair!
    How could he mark thee for the silent tomb,
        My proud boy, Absalom!

    ‘Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill
      When to my bosom I would try 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!

    ‘The grave hath won 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 shalt 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,
      Long for thine ear to catch its dying 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 woe its bitterness had won thee--
    May God have called thee like a wanderer home,
        My erring Absalom!’

      He covered up his face, and bowed himself
    A moment on his child; then giving him
    A look of melting tenderness, he clasped
    His hands convulsively, as if in prayer;
    And as a strength were given him of God,
    He rose up calmly, and composed the pall
    About him decently, and left him there
    As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.

HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS.

    The morning broke. Light stole upon the clouds
    With a strange beauty. Earth received again
    Its garment of a thousand dies; 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 caroling as life
    Were a new thing to them; but oh! it came
    Upon her heart like discord, and she felt
    How cruelly it tries a broken heart,
    To see a mirth in any thing it loves.
    She stood at Abraham’s tent. Her lips were pressed
    Till the blood left them; and the wandering veins
    Of her transparent forehead, were swelled 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
    Clasped in her own, and his round, delicate feet,
    Scarce trained to balance on the tented floor,
    Sandaled for journeying. He had looked up
    Into his mother’s face until he caught
    The spirit there, and his young heart was swelling
    Beneath his snowy bosom, and his form
    Straightened up proudly in his tiny wrath,
    As if his light proportions would have swelled,
    Had they but matched his spirit, to the man.

      Why bends the patriarch as he cometh 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.
    Oh! man may bear with suffering; his heart
    Is a strong thing, and godlike in the grasp
    Of pain that wrings mortality; but tear
    One cord affection clings to, part one tie
    That binds him to a woman’s delicate love,
    And his great spirit yieldeth like a reed.

      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-haired boy,
    And left her to her lot of loneliness.

      Should Hagar weep? May slighted woman turn,
    And as a vine the oak hath shaken off,
    Bend lightly to her tendencies again?
    Oh 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 petulance, 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 high thing out of heaven
    Her pride o’ermastereth not.

      She went her way with a strong step and slow;
    Her pressed lip arched, and her clear eye undimmed,
    As it had been a diamond, and her form
    Borne proudly up, as if her heart breathed through.
    Her child kept on in silence, though she pressed
    His hand till it was pained; for he had caught,
    As I have said, her spirit, and the seed
    Of a stern nation had been breathed upon.

      The morning past, 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 opened his parched 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 bloodshot, 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 died.
    It was too much for her. She lifted him
    And bore him farther 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 mourned:--

      ‘God stay thee in thine agony, my boy!
      I cannot see thee die; I cannot brook
        Upon thy brow to look,
      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 wearing rosy 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 watched 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 deep Nile,
      How prayed I that my fathers’ 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 pillowed 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 laughed
    In his reviving happiness, and lisped
    His infant thought of gladness at the sight
    Of the cool plashing of his mother’s hand.

JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER.

      She stood before 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, revealed a shape
    Praxiteles might worship. She had clasped
    Her hands upon her bosom, and had raised
    Her beautiful, dark, Jewish eyes to heaven,
    Till the long lashes laid upon her brow.
    Her lip was slightly parted, like the leaves
    Of a half-blown pomegranate; and her neck,
    Just where the cheek was melting to its curve,
    With the unearthly beauty sometimes there,
    Was shaded as if light had fallen off,
    Its surface was so polished. She was quelling
    Her light, quick breath, to hear; and the white rose
    Scarce moved upon her bosom as it swelled,
    Like nothing but a wave of light in dreams,
    To meet the arching of her queenly neck.
    Her countenance was radiant with love.
    She looked like one to die for it; a being
    Whose whole existence was the pouring out
    Of rich and deep affections. I have thought
    A brother’s and a sister’s love was much.
    I know a brother’s is, for I have loved
    A trusting sister; and I know how broke
    The heart may be with its own tenderness.
    But the affection of a delicate child
    For a fond father, gushing as it does
    With the sweet springs of life, and living on
    Through all earth’s changes like a principle,
    Chastened with reverence, and made more pure
    By early discipline of light and shade,--
    It must be holier!

                          The wind bore on
    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, poured from far,
    Like the deep murmur of a restless sea.
    They came, as earthly conquerors always come,
    With blood and splendor, revelry and woe.
    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 crushed the fallen. Man is there;
    Majestic, lordly man, with his serene
    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 proudly set,
    And his stern lip curled slightly, as if praise
    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 lighter than a tassel on his frame.
    His crest was Judah’s kingliest, and the look
    Of his dark, lofty eye and terrible brow,
    Might quell the lion. He led on; but thoughts
    Seemed gathering round which troubled him. The veins
    Upon his forehead were distinctly seen;
    And his proud lip was painfully compressed.
    He trod less firmly; and his restless eye
    Glanced 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 intensely forward. The tall firs
    Before his tent were motionless. The leaves
    Of the spiced aloe, and the clustering vines
    Which half concealed 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 recovered passages of dreams.
    He strode on rapidly. A moment more,
    And he had reached his home; when lo! there sprang
    One with a bounding footstep, and a brow
    Like light, to meet him. Oh! how beautiful!
    Her dark eye flashing like a sun-lit gem,
    And her luxuriant hair--’twas like the sweep
    Of a swift wing in visions! He stood still,
    As if the sight had withered him. She threw
    Her arms about his neck; he heeded not.
    She called him ‘Father,’ but he answered not.
    She stood and gazed upon him. Was he wroth?
    There was no anger in that bloodshot eye.
    Had sickness seized him? She unclasped 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 that he was stricken, then, and rushed
    Again into his arms, and with a flood
    Of tears she could not bridle, sobbed a prayer
    That he would tell her of his wretchedness.
    He told her, and a momentary flush
    Shot o’er her countenance; and then the soul
    Of Jephthah’s daughter wakened, and she stood
    Calmly and nobly up, and said ‘’Tis well--
    And I will die!’

                    The sun had well nigh set.
    The fire was on the altar, and the priest
    Of the High God was there. A wasted man
    Was stretching out his withered hands to heaven,
    As if he would have prayed, 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
    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.

IDLENESS.

    It was a leisure day, and I had shut
    My door upon intrusion, and set down
    With a true book to read. My study fire
    Made music to my ear; the placid brow
    Of my Madonna, and the shadowy tints
    Of an old Flemish picture that I keep,
    Might pass for company; and for relief
    To weary eyes, a sweet geranium stood
    In the half shuttered window, breathing out
    Its odors with the pleasant smell of books;
    And a soft landscape, given me by one
    Who has a noble nature, hung in light,
    Serving me as a ground for poetry.

      I read a tale of Séville. It was when
    Darkness was over Spain, and Christian hearts
    Were standing out for truth, undauntedly.
    The daily light brought martyrdom, and men
    Of a pure life went faithfully to die,
    For the rich hope hereafter. There was set
    A scaffold on the ‘golden Guadalquivir;’
    And in the greenest valley of the land,
    With its bright shore and water tempting them
    Like an affection, did they meekly die.
    Nobles as just men perished, where their sires
    Held the chivalric tournament; and one
    Whose ancestors had been Castilia’s kings,
    Died calmly. He had loved to come alone
    And watch that stealing river, and ’tis told
    That when the axe fell frequently, he went
    Ever at evening there, that he might look
    Upon its bloody evidence, and nerve
    His spirit to the trial.

                            ’Tis a tale
    Of high and manly fortitude, and one
    To elevate the nobler nature. I
    Have told it to defend my idle time,
    And prove that a companionship with books
    Betters the spirit, and that gliding back
    Upon these by-past histories reveals
    Perfect example, and may teach sometimes,
    How noble and how beautiful appears
    The finer temper of humanity.

DREAMS.

    ‘I know it is dark; and though I have lain
    Awake, as I guess, an hour or twain,
    I have not once opened the lids of my eyes,
    But I lie in the dark, as a blind man lies.’
                                   Coleridge.

    And what is it to dream? It is to have
    A spiritual being. ’Tis to loose
    Th’ unsleeping mind from matter, and believe
    Miraculous and godlike gifts our own.
    It is to touch all nature with the wand
    Of faery, and be true and beautiful
    Amid a truer and more beautiful world.
    It is to need no contrast that the light
    About us may be visible, and joy
    Mistaken not for sorrow. ’Tis to love
    Dark eyes, and tones like a _secondo_ flute,
    And then be irresistible; and living
    In a sweet granite home, to find your love
    The angel that she seemed in poetry.

      And what is it to dream? It is to know
    The talisman of motion, and soar on
    To the high places of the upper air,
    Like a superior spirit. ’Tis to glide
    Out upon chainless wanderings, unchecked
    By time, or distance, or the circumstance
    Of waking reason. ’Tis to weave long years
    Of a still, midnight hour, or crowd a life
    Into a glowing moment; and amid
    The measure and the harmony that float
    About us like an element, to find
    Ithuriel’s whisper--but a breakfast bell!

      There’s purity in dreams. The passions lie,
    With the dull qualities of earth, asleep;
    And the low interests of life are changed
    For the etherial vision. We erase
    Dark feelings with fantastic incident;
    And feel cool fingers laid upon the brow
    Where the hot flush is burning. We retrace
    All early time in dreams; and hear the low,
    Deep cadences of prayer, and press the hand
    That led us to our happy slumbers then.
    We look on riper seasons with the eye
    That painted them all sunshine, and forget
    That we have found them shadows; and we trust
    Life’s broken reed as lightly, and repeat
    Our first young vow as movingly, again.
    Such dreams refresh the feelings, like a pure
    And high communion; for the spirit wears
    No fetter of a poor, particular world,
    And waits no cold and selfish reasoning,
    To measure out its fervor; but goes back
    Upon the purer memories, and lives o’er
    The brighter past, alone; and when the heart
    Hath buried an affection, it unclothes
    Its image from the drapery of the grave,
    And wins it to its olden tenderness.

      I’ve read of one in story, who had laid
    His young love in the grave. The seasons came
    And went, like shadows over him, for years;
    And then the world grew brighter, and he heard
    A melody in nature’s goings on;
    And a sweet cousin’s voice, that tempted him
    Into the sunshine and the air, became
    The music of his happiness, and so
    He married her. One night she was awake,
    And gazing on his features as the moon
    Shone through the casement on them. A large tear
    Stole from his eye, and as his lips were stirred
    With the low murmur of his dream, she caught
    The name of the departed. He awoke,
    And she reproached him tearfully for love
    Kept secret in his heart; and then he kissed
    Her tears away, and told her that his love
    Was faithfully her own, although in dreams
    An angel came to him sometimes, and woke
    A buried thought of one as beautiful.

OCTOBER.

            ‘----To the influxes
    Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements
    Surrendering the whole spirit.’
                                  Coleridge.

    Summer has pleasant seasons, and the spring
    Comes gaily on the senses; and ’tis sweet
    To know the places of the shadiest trees,
    And hunt the scented violet; but when these
    Have mellowed into autumn, and the flowers
    Sleep in their fragrant places, ’tis to me
    A pleasanter and purer time to give
    Close thought to its forgetfulness, and stray
    By the serenest wave and greenest grass.

      October had come in and I went forth
    To breathe an air like June, and feel the nerve
    Of the elastic temper which a frost
    Gives to the sunshine. The transparent veil
    Of morning’s exhalations had rolled up
    Into white, silvery streakings, and the sky
    Looked perfectly and deeply blue between,
    Like a fixed element, and birds went up
    And sang invisibly, the heavenly air
    Wooed them above the earth so temptingly.
    I never knew the streams so musical,
    Or saw them half so clear; and for the leaves--
    The maples were just turned, and brighter trees
    Were never by the forest pencil drawn.
    The hill-sides seemed to slumber, the warm sun
    Shone on their slopes so softly; and I knew
    One that was carpeted with moss, and leant
    To the warm south so fitly, you would look
    To find Endymion sleeping. ’Twas indeed
    A pleasant place, and when I came to it
    And told her, (did I say I was alone?)
    That it was faery all, and only made
    For her own lovely rest, she laughingly
    Proclaimed herself a queen, and with the leaves
    Bound her transparent temples for a crown,
    And bade me kneel, and she would grant my boon
    To half her fairy kingdom.

                                  Could I paint
    Her picture then! paint her voluptuous lip,
    With its sweet curl of pride; the shaded eye
    In its dark liquid lustre; the fair brow
    With its light wandering veins, and raven braid
    Contrasting with its whiteness; the faint blush
    Upon her cheek, of maiden modesty,
    And the rich outline, melting into grace,
    Of her unmatched proportions; over all,
    Could I but make the picture eloquent
    With the deep, reedy music of her tone,
    Or lend to you the golden leaf which bears
    The sketch within my memory, you would know
    How fairer than the summer, or the spring,
    Should the October season seem to me.

BOYHOOD.

    ‘I was a boy; and she was fair
      As you are when you smile,
    And her voice came forth like the summer air,
      With a tone that did beguile,
    And her two blue eyes refreshing were
    As two trees on an Indian isle.’
                                      Etonian.

    I love fresh feelings--it is so unlike
    This olden world to meet them; and they come
    Upon my heart like music so, or like
    Some passage that is new in poetry.

      I walked one eve by moonlight. I had seen
    Some fourteen summers, and my cyphering
    Was all the thought I had; and as the world
    Had come to me so pleasantly, I took
    A wayward temper for my manual,
    And kept it to the letter. It was now
    A mellow eve of summer, and a girl,
    Who laughed forever like the birds and had
    Long eyelashes and very dangerous eyes,
    Was leaning on my arm. I did not know
    I was in love; but it seemed natural
    To think of all she said, and she’d a way
    Of coming to one’s dreams; and then her name
    Was always in the lesson like a word,
    And half the time I studied it. This eve
    We had been very gay, and I had watched
    The deep, half shaded dimple in her cheek,
    Till I forgot to answer; and as she
    Of too much mirth grew serious, I began
    To act the lover playfully. My cap
    Was carelessly thrown back, and on my cheek
    I shook some dew for tears, and as she curled
    Her lip in mimic scorn, I knelt to her,
    And begged for her sweet favor, touchingly.
    She answered coldly first, and then relented,
    As wiser maids have done; but with a look
    Of something so like earnest, that I did
    Her hand some violence; and then she blushed
    And said I must not tell, but ladies’ lips,
    By some, were counted prettier.

                              The moon
    Shone just as soberly, and I went home
    And kept the secret; but I do not know
    That she would let me touch the seal again.

NIGHT SKETCHES.

        ‘----Therefore let the moon
    Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
    And let the misty mountain winds be free
    To blow against thee: and, in after years,
    When these wild ecstacies shall be matured
    Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind
    Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,
    Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
    If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
    Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
    Of tender joy wilt thou remember----.’
                                        Wordsworth.

I.

    I have been gay tonight. The perfect moon
    Is sitting up in heaven, and living stars
    Are looking sweetly from the firmament;
    All elements that live, and common things
    In earth and sea tonight are beautiful;
    And there is stillness, fitting for pure thought,
    And light for waking dreams, and holiness
    Like a plain language written on the front
    Of this exceeding temple--and yet I
    Have been among the dancers, and have trod
    The measures of a merry instrument.

      I knew it as I went; for I was met
    By a pure reach of moonlight that came down
    Between the city walls, and I went back
    A moment to regard its silver brow,
    And list its gentle lesson; but a sound
    Of music and of thrilling voices came
    From the half opened window, and the laugh
    Of a remembered girl bewilderingly
    Came over me, and I forgot the moon
    As if I never knew it was in heaven.

      ’Tis strange--for I am very happy now
    While leaning in her light, and I could glide
    Most sweetly to the sleep of pleasant dreams
    Beneath her stilly influence--but I know
    That if a voice I think of were to come
    And call me now, my own ungentle name
    (Her melting lip!) would seem more beautiful.

II.

    How secret are the goings on of night!
    The moonlight is not heard; and as the leaves
    Are touched by slumber, they bow gently down
    Without a rustle, and the stealthy dew
    Comes on them like the spirit of a dream.
    The daily heat departs; the unquiet pulse
    Of nature grows serener, and the wave
    Of motion in all growing things is still,
    While coolness circulates unheard, and rest
    Steals like a feeling on the animal world.

      So still art thou, O night! and yet thy voice
    Hath many tones to listen, and it tells
    To my unquiet wakefulness, how deep
    The wisdom that has fashioned thee so well--
    A beautiful and fitting time of rest.

III.

MIDNIGHT ON THE ST LAWRENCE.

    Give me my cloak! It is no night for sleep,
    And I will wear a vigil with the stars
    Until the break of morning. What a scene!
    The orient is all molten with the light
    Of a perfected moon, and in the west
    The deep blue tints look cool, and every star
    Is drawn distinctly on the sheet of heaven.
    The winds are wholly still, and as we pass,
    Breaking the shadows of the many trees
    That sleep upon the margin, or go in
    Among the graceful windings of the stream,
    We seem like wizards, turning into waves
    The very sky--it sleeps so perfectly.
    The vesper bells are hushed, but I can see
    The glitter of the steeples on the hills
    That swell up from the shore, and heavenly
    As is the face of nature, they come in
    Among her features like a pleasant smile,
    The thought of worship is so beautiful.

      Swiftly, yet gently on! How human things
    Are sometimes like a witching vision, fair!
    And how the cunning of diviner skill
    Can mingle up the elements, to make
    A fallen world like heaven! I am made
    Subject to ills, and erringly at best
    May use my faculties; but I am here
    With God’s best work about me, and a mind
    Humbly, but purely to the harmonies
    Of nature tuned, the only looker on
    In all this lovely paradise of light.
    Blessed we sometimes are! and I am now
    Happy in quiet feelings; for the tones
    Of a most pleasant company of friends
    Were in my ear but now, and gentle thoughts
    From spirits whose high character I know,
    Were spoken at the rising of the moon,
    And I retain their influence, as the air
    Retains the softness of departed day.
    And so I should be happy; and while joy
    Is with me, I will bless my company
    Of sleeping friends, and if their eyes should rest
    Upon this page hereafter, they will know
    That in the history of my lonely hours
    Some gentler passages were writ by them.

TWILIGHT.

                ‘----When the fretful stir
    Unprofitable, and the fever of the world
    Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.’
                              Wordsworth.

    O twilight hour! who art so very cool
    And balmy in the summer eventide,
    With thy rich breathing quieting the winds,
    And the uneasy waters; twilight hour!
    Whose mantle is the drapery of dreams,
    And who hast ever been in poetry
    Life’s holy time; thou who wert wont to steal
    Upon us, as thy sandals were of dew!
    How sadly comes the rustle of thy step,
    In the decaying season of the year!

    My early fire is low, and hurrying feet
    In the short pauses of the wind go by,
    And the unquiet leaves, that sighingly
    Obey its gusty summons and sweep on,
    Seem mourning for the green and pleasant trees;
    And the clouds wear sad colors, and I feel
    As there were nothing in this fading world,
    That is not cold and sorrowful like this.
    Thus is it with a spirit not at ease.
    It turns no eye within; but, as it were
    The mirror of the world’s poor circumstance,
    It takes its hue from nature, as if earth
    With its discordant elements could tune
    The delicate harmonies of human mind.
    We have within us fountains, and they flow
    With fancy to create the beautiful,
    And thought to search out knowledge, and deep love
    To link us to society; light mirth
    To gladden, and kind sympathies to shade
    The spirit; and yet many will go out
    With a sealed bosom wandering the world,
    To satisfy a thirst for happiness.
    How strange it is, that when the principle
    Of light is living in us, we should shut
    Its emanations in, and darkly stray
    To catch a beam from nature, like a star
    That should forget its glory and go out,
    Because the moon was shining not in heaven!

DAWN.

    ‘_That_ 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 seems liquid--it o’ersteals
    My bosom and my brow so bathingly.
    It has come over gardens, and the flowers
    That kissed it are betrayed; 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 God’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.
    Lovely indeed is morning! I have drank
    Its fragrance and its freshness, and have felt
    Its delicate touch, and ’tis a kindlier thing
    Than music, or a feast, or medicine.

      I had awoke from an unpleasant dream,
    And light was welcome to me. I looked 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
    Like an untimely garment with the morn!
    Could the long fever of the heart be cooled
    By a sweet breath from nature, or the gloom
    Of a bereaved affection pass away
    With looking on the lively tint of flowers--
    How lightly were the spirit reconciled
    To make this beautiful, bright world its home!

SCRAPS FROM A JOURNAL.

I.

    My heart is like a sleeping lake
      Which takes the hue of cloud and sky,
    And only feels its surface break
      When birds of passage wander by,
    Who dip their wings and upward soar,
    And leave it quiet as before.

    Thus change comes on me. If the light
      Of the gay sun is drank by clouds,
    And dulness sleeps upon the bright,
      Clear garniture whose greenness shrouds
    The naked nature; if the creep
      Of lazy rain-clouds tells alone
    Earth does not on its axle sleep,
      And winds go over with a moan
    Like birds wing-broken; if the sea
      Looks like an agitated pall,
    And sullied foam heaves mournfully,
      And pitches from the dull green wall
    Of waters; if the wild fowl rise
      From the cold ocean with a plash,
    And heavily wheel up the skies,
      As if they would forget the dash
    Of billows, and could pass away
      From earthly sorrows as from earth;
    If not one shorn, but sunny ray,
      Leaps out like a stray thought of mirth;
    If heaven looks sad, and seas look dull,
      And nature’s beauty is a blank--
    I feel as if my heart were full
      Of waters from oblivion drank;
    For I forget, like flowers, the hue
    Of beauty, without sun and dew.

    But a bright morning--when the lark
      Is painted on the light blue sky,
    And vapors rest upon the dark,
      Deep pools of ebony that lie
    In the hill shadows; when the leaves
      Are stirring with the scented air,
    And the bright drops that evening weaves
      Like diamonds in the wavy hair
    Of nature, glisten; when the wing
      Of the light wind is but a shrine
    On which the lowliest flower may fling
      Its gift of odors; when the vine
    Hath lifted its coarse leaf to show
      Its azure clusters to the sun,
    And quickened by his amorous glow,
      The curling shoots stir one by one;
    When every fibre, blade, and stem
      That lifteth to the arch of blue,
    Is jewelled with its droplet gem,
      And every bathed and dainty hue
    Hath a clear April freshness; when
      The birds go caroling like streams
    O’er pebbly courses, and the glen
      Reechoes patiently the themes
    A thousand summers and their birds
    Have given in those very words;
      When every nerve is nobly strung,
    And leaping pulses swiftly pass,
      And care is from the spirit flung
    Like rain-drops from the swaying grass--
      I feel as if my spirit took
    From nature a new gift of sight,
      And I could read her living book
    By perfect and immediate light,
    And knew, as angels know, how broad
    Is the benevolence of God.

II.

    It is a glorious morning. Storm
    Hath left no traces, and the warm,
    Rich sunshine cometh like a strain
    Of parted music, back again.
    The trees are bare, but like a true
    And changeless friend, the sun shines through,
    And round the sad and fallen leaves
    His mesh of light he softly weaves.
    I see and feel how very fair
    This summer sun, and breezes are;
    I see the white, thin vapors wreathed
    About the hills as if they breathed;
    I see the sky’s pure, delicate blue,
    Like a soft eye which melts me through,
    And I’ve remembered the sweet eyes
    I likened to those gentle skies,
    And gazed this hour as if their look
    Were written in that azure book,
    And the long echo came but now
    Of my hot speech and silly vow.
    I cannot wander; but I know
    How earth’s deep voices softly flow;
    I know how light the waters run
    O’er the sere grass and fretful stone;
    I know how fountains leap, how still
    The winds creep over lake and hill;
    The Autumn birds, the last leaf-fall,
    The morn’s sweet breath--I know them all.

      I know them all--and yet my feet
    Are not where singing waters meet;
    My books are for the running streams,
    And stupid schoolmen for the dreams
    Of gentle spirits; I am tied
    While nature joyeth like a bride;
    Chained down to reason on the cool,
    Dull precepts of a skeptic’s rule,
    While beauty over earth and sea
    Is gushing as a fount let free.

      It hath its lesson. Beautiful things
    Are given like retreating wings;
    Not to be gathered, never won,
    But sent to lead the spirit on;
    Winning the upward eye of prayer,
    As ’twere a finger pointing there,
    Till we have followed to the sky
    An angel, imperceptibly.

III.

    It is a holy night. The moon
    Hath made it like a gentler noon,
    And every deep and starry eye
    Is waking in the summer sky,
    As if its light were made alone
    For restless hearts to gaze upon.
    There are no voices, and the stir
    Of the soft south goes lightlier
    Among the branches, and the deep,
    Felt stillness of a world asleep,
    Is on my spirit like the touch
    Of a sweet friend who loveth much.
    I’ve left my books. I cannot damp
    My heart beside a weary lamp
    While heaven is set with stars, and I
    Am not to sit down quietly,
    And on a musty altar fling
    The birthright of a glorious wing.
    Reason who will; while skies of June
    Are molten by this silent moon,
    While flowers have breath, and voices creep
    From running brook and fountain-leap,
    While any thing is left to love
    In this fair earth and heaven above,
    I would not wear a fettered limb
    To make Chaldea’s wisdom dim.

      Why, what is duty? Sky and sea,
    Thou promised heaven! are types of thee;
    The earth is like a flowing cup
    Of perfect beauty mingled up;
    The very elements of heaven,
    Life, light, and music, freely given;
    The world an Eden, and we thirst
    For every voice and fountain-burst;
    And yet, we’re told, at duty’s call
    We must forego--forget them all!

      How has the foot of nature trod
    The pathway of a perfect God,
    How are the springs of earnest thought
    With his diviner cunning wrought,
    If all that makes us feel our fate
    Not altogether desolate--
    This burning love for beautiful things,
    Is sealed among forbidden springs,
    And we must throw a gift of fire
    Aside like a neglected lyre?

BETTER MOMENTS.

    My mother’s voice! how often creeps
      Its cadence on my lonely hours,
    Like healing sent on wings of sleep,
      Or dew to the unconscious flowers!

    I can forget her melting prayer
      While leaping pulses madly fly;
    But in the still unbroken air,
      Her gentle tone comes stealing by,
    And years, and sin, and manhood flee,
    And leave me at my mother’s knee.

    The book of nature, and the print
      Of beauty on the whispering sea,
    Give aye to me some lineament
      Of what I have been taught to be.
    My heart is harder, and perhaps
      My manliness hath drunk up tears,
    And there’s a mildew in the lapse
      Of a few miserable years--
    But nature’s book is even yet
    With all my mother’s lessons writ.

    I have been out at eventide
      Beneath a moonlight sky of spring,
    When earth was garnished 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 makes the pulses pass
      With wilder fleetness, thronged the night--
    When all was beauty--then have I,
      With friends on whom my love is flung
    Like myrrh on winds of Araby,
      Gazed up where evening’s lamp is hung,
    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 poured her low and fervent prayer
      That our eternity might be
    To rise in heaven like stars at night,
    And tread a living 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 thrilled 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 pressed
    On the wet grass my fevered brow,
      And pouring forth the earliest,
    First prayer with which I learned 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--
      As humble as a very child!

THE HINDOO MOTHER.

    It was a gentle eve in Hindoostan.
    The rains were past, and the delighted earth
    Was beautiful once more, and glittering leaves
    Were lifting lightly on their beaten stems,
    And glancing to the pure, transparent sky,
    Like a pleased infant smiling through its tears.
    Clouds lingered in the west, and tints were drawn
    By sunset fingers on their skirts of gold,
    And they were floating as serenely there,
    As if the children of the restless storm
    Could sleep upon the azure floor of heaven.

      Deep ran the holy Ganges, for the rain
    Had swollen it from Thibet to the sea.
    Its flow was turbid; and, as if the winds
    Were not forgotten by the multitude
    Of its strange waters, they were leaping up,
    And with a wonderous glory gathering
    The mantle of the sunset over them.
    How frequently these living passages
    Of nature’s book are opened, and how few
    Are the high hearts that know them, and can feel
    Their eloquence and beauty!

                                Meina stood
    Upon the breathing carpet of the shore,
    Gazing on sky and river. There was much
    In the dark features of the young Hindoo,
    That should have won a gentler history.
    She had the Eastern eye, with its dark fringe
    And shadowy depth of lustre; but, beyond
    The elements of beauty, there was writ
    A something that the wounded roe would trust
    For shelter from its hunters. Her closed lips
    Were delicate as the tinted pencilling
    Of veins upon a flower; and on her cheek
    The timid blood had faintly melted through,
    Like something that was half afraid of light.
    There was no slighter print upon the grass
    Than her elastic step; and in her frame
    There was a perfect symmetry, that seemed
    Aerial as a bird’s. It was the hour
    For worship in her land; and she had come,
    With the religion of a high, pure heart,
    To bow herself in prayer. A darker mind
    Might pray at such an hour; but she had caught
    The spirit of the scene; and, as her eye
    Followed the coursing of the golden waves,
    Or rested on the clouds that slept above,
    Like isles upon the bosom of the sea,
    Her soul was swept to music like a harp,
    And she knelt down in her deep blessedness
    To worship the High Maker. As she prayed,
    Her beautiful young boy--a very dream,
    As he might be, of infant loveliness,
    With his dark hair upon the summer wind,
    And the sweet laugh of a delighted child
    Like music on his lips--came leaping by,
    And, flinging a light wreath upon her brow,
    Sprang onward like a bounding antelope.
    She turned a moment--might she not, for him?
    Him, whom she cradled in the whispering tree,
    And gathered to her bosom in the hush
    Of the still night?--to know if he was there.
    Twas but a moment, and she bowed again;
    And, as the murmur of her silver tone
    Stole out upon the wind, her images
    Of majesty came back, and she was filled,
    Like a deep channel by the whirlwind swept,
    Again with the rich rushing of her prayer.
    The shadows of the stealthy evening came
    Silently on; but she was up, in thought,
    Among the crystal palaces of light;
    And a still prompting came to her, to pray
    That the poor spirit of a passing world,
    With all its fond, but frail idolatries,
    Might on the altar of her God be flung.
    She breathed it, and along the holy shore
    She heard the whisper of the waters creep:
    ‘Thine is the victory, Meina!’--Was it won?
    Won in its cold, bereaving cruelty?
    Won from the pride of woman? from her love?
    Won from thy boy! young mother? No! oh, no!
    She had forgotten him! He was too young,
    Too purely, beautifully young, to die!
    And then the waves repeated to the shore,
    And the light echo heard it: ‘Give him up!’
    And Meina heard it: ‘Give him to thy God!’
    And the strong heart arose! One arrowy pulse
    Of an acuter agony than death;
    One fearful shiver at the searching thrill,
    And she had won--aye, with her glorious boy
    Upon her very breast--the victory!
    Oh! let the erring oftener be forgiven,
    That, in the shadowy twilight of the mind,
    They stray a little from the perfect way!
    If there is evidence in silent leaves,
    And the still waters, of a present God,
    And all who hear not messages of grace,
    Must gather from its dim and hidden words
    Their better solaces; remember ye
    Who reckon lightly of the poor Hindoo,
    That, in the scattering of the leaves of life,
    His page was written more imperfectly.

      The beautiful sun arose, and there was not
    A stain upon the sky; the virgin blue
    Was delicate as light; and, as the east
    Eclipsed night’s pale and starry jewelry,
    The pure intensity of noon stole on,
    Like the soft deepening of a northern eye.

      ‘Come! my own glorious boy!’ and forth he sprang,
    As he had been created of the morn
    A spirit and an element of light.
    ‘Come! Come!’ and he was bounding airily
    Beside his stately mother, laughing out
    His lisping prattle of the promised boat,
    As if her words had been in playfulness,
    ‘That the bright waves should float him on to heaven.’
    The morning mist stole up, as Meina knelt
    To offer him to God. Her eyes were dim;
    But her fine forehead, and her calm, still lip,
    Were fearfully subdued; and as the cloud
    Which clothes the lightning slumbers, so they slept.
    Her soul was in its strength. She held her boy
    Upon her bosom, till she felt the throb
    Of his warm pulses numbered on her heart,
    And her low, leaden cadences, kept on!
    His silken hair, as delicately soft
    As the light wind that stirred it, floated up,
    As if to plead at her transparent cheek;
    But she had wooed its kisses till it came
    To be a fond idolatry, and now
    She nerved her as the strong heart answered it.
    And the low words broke severally on,
    Distinctly as a common orison!
    There is a period in the wreck of hopes
    By the affections garnered, calmer far
    Than an untried serenity. It comes
    With the stern conflict ever, and awaits
    The passage of that hour, as if the soul
    Were girded, and had championed suffering;
    And it is strange, how a weak human heart
    Will thus be quiet like a hushing storm,
    And, with a fetter on its pulses, wait
    To measure spirits for the mastery!

      The low ‘Amen!’ died on the silent air,
    And Meina’s heart was ready. The young boy
    Sprang joyously away, as if her arms
    Had prisoned him too long; and, as he saw
    The painted boat heave lightly to the swell
    Upon the reedy shore, and caught the breath
    Of her wreathed helm of flowers, he gave a shout,
    In his impatient gladness, and away,
    Like a warm vision of aerial birth,
    He bounded to implore that she would come.
    Calmly and steadily came Meina on,
    Led by her victim boy. The boat was there
    Among the tall wet reeds, and she went in
    And scanned its light frame over, and arranged
    Its mimic ornaments; and then again,
    When she had seen it all, and he had grown
    Impatient, she began to note once more
    The frailties in its lightly plaited reeds,
    As if she did not know that it was meant
    To kill. It is a wonderful effect
    Of nature in the heart, that in the strength
    Of a mistaken duty, it will turn,
    And almost trifle with its tenderness,
    As if it half misgave that all was wrong.

      ‘Come!’ and he sprang into his mother’s arms
    With a light leap, and, scarcely faltering
    In his gay laugh, he looked into her face,
    And in a tone of fondness whispered her,
    ‘Will the boat bear, dear mother?’ She had quelled
    Her feelings until now; had nerved herself
    To the light grace with which he bounded by;
    Had heard his voice, and looked upon his hair
    In its light, breezy floatings, and had shut
    Her heart up, with an iron thought, to all.
    But this one doubt, half sadness as it came
    From his delighted lips, and with his look
    Of childlike and appealing confidence,
    Was keener than a mother’s heart could bear!
    She bowed her head, and struggled, as if life
    Were bursting from its seal; and, as the thought
    Rushed over her to take her idol back,
    And keep him for her God, he murmured low,
    ‘And are you sure, my mother?’--‘No! my son!’
    And the strong tide of nature gathered back
    With a resistless energy. She clasped
    Her boy convulsively, and he had lived
    To quicken, in its gifted elements,
    The radiant spirit written on his brow,
    But a high strengthening she knew not of,
    Awakened her, and pressing down her lips
    In a long fervent kiss upon his cheek,
    She hushed him into peace, and lifting up
    Her face to heaven, she breathed the name of God,
    And laid him down--for ever!

                                The light bark
    Went smoothly with the tide, and floated on
    Till his dark eye was scarcely visible.
    On, and yet on, she bounded! The bright waves
    Seemed playful in their leaping joyousness,
    And the curled ripple feathered at the prow
    Like a glad thing of life. Had death grown slow?
    Or were the waters ‘stayed,’ that they should keep
    Their cold embraces from him? On, still on,
    With her quick undulations! Hope revived
    In the sick heart of Meina, and she rose
    To gaze more keenly forward. He was there,
    And his small arms were lifted; and she thought
    That, as he tossed them upward, she could hear
    A cadence of his sweet and silvery voice
    Like a delighted shouting. It died off,
    And then again she heard it. Was it joy
    That broke upon her ear? oh! was there joy
    In that long cry, thou mother? Hark to it!
    ’Tis like the arrowy piercing of the wind!
    He moveth, and she bade him to be still!
    He riseth! ’tis his boyish restlessness!
    Look, Meina! Does he dash his little hands,
    In mirth, upon the waters? Hark! once more!
    ‘Mother!’ He calls thee! Is thy child afraid?
    Again! How very fearfully it comes!
    ‘Help! Mother!’ ’Tis a cry of agony!
    He sinks! Fly! Fly! he calls to thee! Oh fly!
    ‘Mother!’ God help thee! Dost thou see him now?

WAITING FOR THE HARVESTERS.

    And there she sat in ripened loveliness,
    An English mother; joying in her babes,
    Whose life was bright before her, and whose lips
    Were breaking into language, with the sweet
    And loving sentences they learn so soon.
    Her face was very beautiful, and mirth
    Was native on her lip; but ever now
    As a sweet tone delighted her, the smile
    Went melting into sadness, and the lash
    Drooped gently to her eye, as if it knew
    Affection was too chaste a thing for mirth.
    It was the time for harvest, and she sat
    Awaiting one. A breath of scented hay
    Was in the air, and from the distance came
    The noise of sickles, and the voices sent
    Out on the stillness of the quiet morn;
    And the low waters, coming like the strain
    Of a pervading melody, stole in,
    And made all music! ’Twas a holiness
    Of nature’s making, and I lifted up
    My heart to Heaven, and in my gladness prayed
    That if a heart were sad, or if a tear
    Were living upon earth, it might be theirs
    To go abroad in nature, and to see
    A mother and her gentle babes like these.

FUGITIVE PIECES.

THE SOLDIER’S WIDOW.

        Wo! for my vine-clad home!
    That it should ever be so dark to me,
    With its bright threshold, and its whispering tree!
        That I should ever come,
    Fearing the lonely echo of a tread,
    Beneath the roof-tree of my glorious dead!

        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!

        Lead on! for thou art now
    My sole remaining helper. God hath spoken,
    And the strong heart I leaned upon is broken;
        And I have seen his brow,
    The forehead of my upright one, and just,
    Trod by the hoof of battle to the dust.

        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!

        Aye, my own boy! thy sire
    Is with the sleepers of the valley cast,
    And the proud glory of my life hath past,
        With his high glance of fire.
    Wo! that the linden and the vine should bloom,
    And a just man be gathered 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, O Switzerland, he died!
    I will forget my sorrow--in my pride!

THE BURIAL OF ARNOLD,

MEMBER OF THE SENIOR CLASS OF YALE COLLEGE.

    Ye’ve gathered 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 he
      Strode up that foot-worn aisle,
    With his dark eye flashing vividly,
      And his lip wreathed with a smile.
    Oh! had it been but told you then
      To mark whose lamp was dim,
    From out yon rank of fresh-lipped men,
      Would ye have singled him?

    Whose was the sinewy arm which 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 the noblest of the dead!
    Slow! for it presses heavily;
      It is a man ye bear!
    Slow! for our thoughts dwell wearily
      On the noble 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-veined eyelid’s sleep,
    Hiding the eye death left so dull;
      Its slumber we will keep.

    Rest now! his journeying is done;
      Your feet are on his sod.
    Death’s chain is on your champion;
      Here waiteth he his God!
    Aye, turn and weep! ’tis manliness
      To be heart-broken here;
    For the grave of earth’s best nobleness
      Is watered by the tear.

TO LAURA W----,

TWO YEARS OF AGE.

    Bright be the skies that cover thee,
      Child of the sunny brow!
    Bright as the dream flung over thee,
      By all that meets thee now.
    Thy heart is beating joyously,
      Thy voice is like a bird’s,
    And sweetly breaks the melody
      Of thy imperfect words.
    I know no fount that gushes out,
    As gladly as thy tiny shout.

    Thy coral lip is pencilled well,
      Thy cheek is deeply dyed;
    Thine eye might shame the fleet gazelle,
      In all his desert pride;
    Thy fairy foot’s uncertain step,
      Thy light bewitching grace,
    The smile that curls thy sleeping lip,
      And lights thy radiant face;
    Have made a gift of beauty up
    Too fair to taste life’s tainted cup.

    I would that thou mightst ever be
      As beautiful as now;
    That time might ever leave us free
      Thy yet unwritten brow!
    I would life were all poetry
      To gentle measures set,
    That nought but chastened melody,
      Might dim 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 intenser sympathies,
      And nerved by purer 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!

    I fear thy gentle loveliness,
      Thy witching tone and air,
    Thine eye’s beseeching earnestness,
      May be to thee a snare.
    For silver stars may purely shine,
      The waters taintless flow;
    But they who kneel at woman’s shrine,
      Breathe on it as they bow.
    Ye may fling back the gift again,
    But the crushed flower will leave a 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!

SONNET.

TO A PICTURE OF ‘GENEVIEVE,’ BY ALEXANDER.

    Thine is a face to look upon and pray
      That a pure spirit keep thee. I would meet
    With one so gentle by the streams away,
      Living with nature; keeping thy pure feet
    For the unfingered moss, and for the grass
    Which leaneth where the gentle waters pass.
      The autumn leaves should sigh thee to thy sleep,
    And the capricious April, coming on,
      Awake thee like a flower, and stars should keep
    A vigil o’er thee like Endymion;
      And thou for very gentleness shouldst weep,
    As dew of the night’s quietness comes down.
      I’ve praised thee, Genevieve! A dream of mine
      Hath just such dark and shaded eyes as thine.

SONNET.

    I have been gazing on thee, Genevieve,
      And musing, in my love, if thou must die;
    And I have thought it were not well to grieve
      At thy most delicate frame and lustrous eye;
    For as a harp is broken, when the finger
      That knew its cunning hath forgot to play,
    Thou wouldst not, for that frail confinement, linger,
      When it was time for thee to pass away;
    And therefore am I glad, that when my heart
      To thy enquiring tenderness is hushed,
    And thine endearments from mine eyes depart,
      ’Twill be enough for thee that life hath gushed,
    Gently to loose the silver cord, and die,
    And with me in my place of slumber lie.

SONNET.

    I care not that the world, when I am dead,
      Remember me; I care not that they come
    To see the place where I shall lay my head,
      Or praise me with low voices at my tomb;
    I would not even a recording stone
    Should tell them what I was--when I am gone.
      There are a few who love me--whom I love--
    Gentle and gifted spirits, who would weep,
      But not that I had found a rest above,
    And in their hearts my trifling virtues keep;
      And one, whom I have folded like a dove
    In my affections, would lie down and sleep
      Softly beside me--and I should not care,
      That any one should know that I was there.

EXTRACT FROM A POEM

DELIVERED AT THE DEPARTURE OF THE SENIOR CLASS OF YALE COLLEGE, IN 1826.

    We shall go forth together. There will come
    Alike the day of trial unto all,
    And the rude world will buffet 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 scale
    Of being is a graduated thing;
    And deeper than the vanities of power,
    Or the vain pomp of glory, there is writ
    Gradation, in its hidden characters.
    The pathway to the grave may be the same,
    And the proud man shall tread it, and the low,
    With his bowed head, shall bear him company.
    Decay will make no difference, and death
    With his cold hand shall make no difference;
    And there will be no precedence of power,
    In waking at the coming trump of God;
    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 chrystal 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.
    It is life’s mystery. The soul of man
    Createth 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!
    For it hath tempted angels. Yet press on!
    For it shall make you mighty among men;
    And from the eyrie of your eagle thought,
    Ye shall look down on monarchs. Oh! press on!
    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!
    Press on! for it is godlike to unloose
    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!
    Press on!--‘for in the grave there is no work,
    And no device.’--Press on! while yet ye may!

      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!
    There is a gentler element, and man
    May breathe it with a calm, unruffled soul,
    And drink its living waters till his heart
    Is pure--and this is human happiness!
    Its secret and its evidence are 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 whispering tree;
    To see, and hear, and breathe the evidence
    Of God’s deep wisdom in the natural world!
    It is to linger on ‘the magic face
    Of human beauty,’ and from light and shade
    Alike to draw a lesson; ’tis to love
    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 fair;
    And in the gush of music to be still,
    And feel that it has purified the heart!
    It is to love all virtue for itself,
    All nature for its breathing evidence;
    And when the eye hath seen, and when the ear
    Hath drunk the beautiful harmony of the world,
    It is to humble the imperfect mind,
    And lean the broken spirit upon God!

      Thus would I, at this parting hour, be true
    To the great moral of a passing world.
    Thus would I--like a just departing child,
    Who lingers on the threshold of his home--
    Remember the best lesson of the lips
    Whose accents shall be with us now, no more!
    It is the gift of sorrow to be pure;
    And I would press the lesson; that when life
    Hath half become a weariness, and hope
    Thirsts for serener waters, go abroad
    Upon the paths of nature, and when all
    Its voices whisper, and its silent things
    Are breathing the deep beauty of the world,
    Kneel at its simple altar, and the God
    Who hath the living waters, shall be there!

NOTES.

PAGE 32, LINES 12 and 13.

    _‘And a soft landscape given me by one_
    _Who has a noble nature.’_

The gentleman who gave me the picture of ‘Stirling Castle’ will not be
surprised that so pleasant a gift holds a place in my memory.

PAGE 33, LINES 9 and 10.

                                        _‘one_
    _Whose ancestors had been Castilia’s kings.’_

This striking anecdote is related of Ponce de Leon, in, I think, ‘A
Visit to Spain,’ by Michael Quin.

PAGE 47, LINE 12.

    _‘The glitter of the steeples on the hills.’_

Every one who has made the passage of the St Lawrence, will remember
the beautiful effect of the steeples on the shore. Occupying almost
every swell on the low interval, and tiled universally with tin, they
glisten in the moonlight like turrets of silver. It is even in that
majestic scenery an impressive and delightful feature.

PAGE 84, LINE 4.

    _‘Child of the sunny brow.’_

Perhaps my book will be forgotten before the child, to whom these
lines are addressed, is old enough to understand them; but even if it
is not, there is little harm in saying that she is at this time the
most beautiful human being I ever saw. Her ‘thousand winning ways’ and
graceful motion are before me now like a sweet dream, and I shall never
forget them. May God bless her!

PAGE 87, LINE 14.

    _‘As dew of the night’s quietness comes down.’_

If my readers have neglected meteorology as long as I did, the younger
part of them at least, would like to be told that the dew never falls
except on a still night.

Transcriber’s Notes

A number of typographical errors have been corrected silently.

Cover image was created by the transcriber and is in the public domain.