Poems of Nathaniel Parker Willis . :: :: University of Virginia Library

The leaves we knew
Are gone, these many summers, and the winds
Have scatter'd them all roughly through the world
But still, in calm and venerable strength,
The old stems lift their burthens up to heaven,
And the young leaves, to the same pleasant tune,
Drink in the light, and strengthen, and grow fair.
The shadows have the same cool, emerald air;
And prodigal as ever is the breeze,
Distributing the verdure's temperate balm.
The trees are sweet to us. The outcry strong
Of the long-wandering and returning heart,
Is for the thing least changed. A stone unturn'd,
Is sweeter than a strange or alter'd face;
A tree, that flings its shadows as of yore,
Will make the blood stir, sometimes, when the words
Of a long-look'd-for lip fall icy cold.
Ye, who in this Academy of shade,
Dreamt out the scholar's dream, and then away
On troubled seas went voyaging with Care,

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But hail to-day the well-remember'd haven—
Ye, who at memory's trumpet-call, have stay'd
The struggling foot of life, the warring hand,
And, weary of the strife, come back to see
The green tent where your harness was put on—
Say—when you trod the shadowy street this morn,
Leapt not your heart up to the glorious trees?
Say—was it only to my sleep they came—
The angels, who to these remember'd trees
Brought me back, ever? I have come, in dream
From many a far land, many a brighter sky,
And trod these dappled shadows till the morn.
From every Gothic isle my heart fled home,
From every groinéd roof, and pointed arch,
To find its type in emerald beauty here.
The moon we worshipp'd thro' this trembling veil,
In other heavens seem'd garish and unclad.
The stars that burn'd to us thro' whispering leaves,
Stood cold and silently in other skies.
Stiller seem'd alway here the holy dawn
Hush'd by the breathless silence of the trees;
And who, that ever, on a Sabbath morn,
Sent thro' this leafy roof a prayer to Heaven,
And when the sweet bells burst upon the air,
Saw the leaves quiver, and the flecks of light
Leap like caressing angels to the feet
Of the church-going multitude, but felt
That here, God's day was holier—that the trees,
Pierced by these shining spires, and echoing ever
“To prayer!” “To prayer!” were but the lofty roof

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Of an unhewn cathedral, in whose choirs
Breezes and storm-winds, and the many birds
Join'd in the varied anthem; and that so,
Resting their breasts upon these bending limbs,
Closer, and readier to our need they lay—
The spirits who keep watch 'twixt us and Heaven

Alas! not spirits of bright wing alone
“Dwell by the oracle of God.” The tree
That with its bright spray fans the sacred spire,
And trembles like a seraph's lyre to prayer,
Is peopled with the lying ministers
To new-born passions, who, with couchant ear,
Follow the lone steps of the musing boy,
And ere the wild wish struggles to the light,
Mask its dark features, and with silvery voice
Promise it wings resistless. Back, to-day,
Comes many a foot, all wearily and slow,
That went into the world with winged heel;
And many a man, still young, though wisely sad,
Paces the sweet old shadows with a sigh,
The spirits are so mute to manhood's ear
That tranced the boy with music. On a night,
The fairest of a summer, years ago,
There walk'd a youth beneath these arching trees
The moon was in mid-heaven, an orb of gold.
The air was rock'd asleep, or, 'mid the leaves
Walked without whisper. On the pavement lay
The broken moonbeams, like a silver net,

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Massive and motionless, and, if a bird
Sang a half carol as the moon wore on
And look'd into his nest, or if the note
Of a monotonous insect caught the ear,
The silence was but challenged by the sound,
And night seem'd stiller after. With his heart
Robb'd of its sentinel, the youth paced on.
His truant soul lay breathless on his lips,
Drowsed with the spell of the voluptuous air;
And shut was memory's monitory book;
And mute, alas! as they will sometimes be,
Were Heaven's rebuking angels. Then uprose
In the unguarded chamber of his heart,
A murmur, inarticulate and wild;
And ere it had a semblance, or a name,
A soft voice from the trees said, “Wak'st thou there?
Wak'st thou, at last, O nature? Thou has slept,
Far through the morn, and glowing flowers of ear,
Many and bright ones, hast thou lost forever!
But life is full of roses—come away!
Shut up those dreary books, and come away!
Why is the night so passionately sweet,
If made for study and a brow of care?
Why are your lips pride, and your eyes soft fire?—
Why beautiful in youth,—if cold to joy?
List to the pleading senses, where they lie,
Numb and forgotten in the cell of thought;
Yet are they God's gift—precious as the rest.
Use what thou hast—turn to the soft path ever,—
And, in the garden of this pleasant world,

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Pluck what seems fairest to thee!” A light wind
Stole through the trees, and with its airy hand
Lifted the leafy veil from off the moon;
And steadfastly Night's solemn eye look'd in
Upon the flush'd face of the troubled boy—
And the mysterious voice was heard no more.

Again 'twas night. A storm was in the air;
And, by his pale and solitary lamp,
A youth of sterner temper than the last,
Kept the lone scholar's vigil. He had laid
His book upon its face, and with his head
Turn'd to the rattling casement, sat erect,
And listen'd to the shrill, tempestuous wind.
Gust after gust swept by, and as the scream
Of the careering tempest fiercer came,
The youth's dark brow crouch'd lowering to his eye,
And his thin lips press'd bloodlessly together;
And with some muttering words, as if replying
To voices that call'd to him from the storm,
He rose, and hurriedly strode forth. The air
Below the lashing tree-tops was all black.
The loftly trunks creak'd staggering in the wind,
But all invisibly; and in the sky
Was only so much light as must be there
While hope is in the world. Small need had then
The spirit who would wile that heart from Heaven
To lend it mask or utterance. With step
Reckless and fast the wanderer sped on,
And as the tempest smote upon his breast,

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And howlingly fled past, he clench'd his hands,
And struck his strong arms thro' the air, and rush'd
Headlong with flying fury thro' the dark.
Breathless and hoarse, at last, against the trunk
Of a vast tree he stood; and to an ear
Bending from out the branches as they swung,
Unconsciously he mutter'd:—“I am weak,
And this wild storm is mighty; but I feel
A joy in its career, as if my soul
Breathed only thus. I am aroused—unchain'd,
Something gives outcry in me that was dumb,
Something that pined for weapons is in arms,
And set on with a trumpet. Glorious blast!
What is my poor tranquility of life—
My abject study—to thy storming joy?
An intellect is mine—a passive soul
Antagonist to nothing—while for thee,
A senseless element, are wings and power—
Power to dash the stars out from the sky—
Wings to keep pace with midnight round the world.
The lightning's fiery traverse is no bar,
The thunder's hush no check, the howling trees
Only thy music. Demon, if thou art!
Prince of the powers of air, if such there be!
Darkness and conflict are my element,
As they are thine!” The storm lull'd suddenly,
The tortured trees stood silent in the gloom,
And all was still—save that amid the leaves
Stirr'd a low murmur, which, like airy lips,
Whispering close into the scholar's ear,

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Became articulate:—“Be calm! be calm!
Return to thy neglected books, and read!
Thou shalt have all thou wilt, but, in thy books,
Lie weapons keener than the lightning's edge
And in thy intellect a power of ill
To which the storm-wind is an infant's anger.
The blast blots out the stars that shine again.
The storm-wind and the darkness leave the trees
Brighter for morn to smile on; but the mind
Forges from knowledge an archangel's spear,
And, with the spirits that compel the world,
Conflicts for empire. Call thy hate of day,
Thy scorn of men, ambition!—and, if moved
By something in thy heart to wrong and slay—
Justice sits careless with a bloody sword;
Religion has remorseless whips; and gold
Brings to thy spurning foot the necks of men.
Be thou the sword—the whip—get thou the gold—
And borne triumphant upon human praise,
The lightning were too slow to do thy will—
The stormy night not black enough.” Again
Toward the window glimmering thro' the dark
The scholar turn'd, and with a pallid brow,
But lips of marble, fed his wasting lamp,
And patiently read down the morning star.
And he was changed thenceforward. [OMITTED]
[OMITTED]

[OMITTED] Wave once more
The wand athwart the mirror of the past.

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A summer's eve in June. The sun had shot
A golden arrow down yon leafy aisle,
And to his tent gone in. The dusty air
Paraded in his glory. The bright spires,
Like mourners who still see the lost in Heaven,
Shone in his smile as if he had not set;
And presently, amid his glowing track,
Like one who came reluctant to replace
The great light newly fled, the evening star
Stood forth with timid and diminish'd ray—
But brighten'd as the sun was longer gone.
Life was a feast at this delicious hour,
And all came forth to it. The bent old man
Paced musingly before his open door.
The tired child, with hands cross'd droopingly,
Sat at the threshold. Slowly pass'd the dame;
Slowly the listless scholar, sauntering back
To his shut books unwillingly; and low—
Soften'd and low—as if the chord of love
Were struck and harmonized throughout the world,
The hum of voices rose upon the air.
Hush'd were the trees the while; and voiceless lay
The wakeful spirits in the leaves, till, lo!
A pale youth, mingling in the throng! With light
And airy step, and mien of such a grace
As breathes thro' marble from the sculptor's dream,
He pass'd, and after him the stranger's eye
Turn'd with inquiring wonder. Dumb no more

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Were the invisible dwellers in the trees;
For, as he went, the feathery branches seem'd
To “syllable his name;” and to the ears
Of them who met him, whispering music flew,
Stealing their hearts away to link to his.
“Love him!” the old man heard as if the leaves
Of his own roof-tree murmur'd it; “Love well
The poet who may sow your grave with flowers,
The traveller to the far land of the Past,
Lost to your feet forever!” Sadly lean'd
The mourner at her window as he came,
And the far-drooping elm-leaf touch'd her brow
And whisper'd, “He has counted all thy tears!
The breaking chord was audible to him!
The agony for which thou, weeping, saidst
There was no pity, for its throbs were dumb—
He look'd but in thine eyes, and read it all!
Love him, for sorrowing with thee!”The sad child,
Sitting alone with his unheeded grief,
Look'd at him through his tears, and smiled to hear
The same strange voice that talk'd to him in dreams
Speak from the low tree softly; and it said—
“The stranger who looks on thee loves the child!
He has seen angels like thee; and thy sorrow
Touches his own, as he goes silent by.
Love him, fair child!” The poor man, from his door,
Look'd forth with cheerful face, and as the eye,
The soft eye of the poet, turn'd to his,
A whisper from the tree said, “This is he
Who knows thy heart is human as his own,

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Who, with inspired numbers, tells the world
That love dwells with the lowly. He has made
The humble roof a burthen in sweet song—
Interpreted thy heart to happier men!
Love him! oh, love him, therefore!” The stern man,
Who, with the tender spirit of a child,
Walks in some thorny path, unloved and lone;
The maiden with her secret; the sad mother,
Speaking no more of her dishonor'd boy,
But bound to him with all her heart-strings yet,—
Those heard the trees say, as the poet pass'd,
“Yours is the mournful poetry of life,
And in the sad lines of your silent lips,
Reads he with tenderest pity! Knit to him
The hearts he opens like a claspéd book,
And, in the honey'd music of his verse,
Hear your dumb griefs made eloquent!” With eye
Watchful and moist, the poet kept his way,
Unconscious of the love around him springing;
And when from its bent path the evening star
Stepp'd silently, and left the lesser fires
Lonely in heaven, the poet had gone in,
Mute with the many sorrows he had seen;
And, with the constancy of starry eyes,
The hearts he touch'd drew to him. [OMITTED]

James Hillhouse, who had died at New Haven a few months before.