University of Virginia Library

UNWRITTEN POETRY.

BY N. P. WILLIS.

WORDSWORTH.

There is poetry that is not written. It is living in
the hearts of many to whom rhyme is a mystery. As I
here use it, it is delicate perception; something which
is in the nature, enabling one man to detect harmony,

and know forms of beauty better than another. It is
like a peculiar gift of vision; not creating a new world,
but making the world we live in more visible; enabling
us to combine and separate and arrange elements
of beauty into the fair proportions of a picture. The poet
hears music in common sounds, and sees loveliness by
the wayside. There is not a change in the sky, nor a
noise of the water, nor a sweet human voice, which does
not bring him pleasure. He sees all the light and hears
all the music about him—and this is poetry.

To one thus gifted, nature is a friend of many sweet
offices and true consolations. Call it visionary if you
will, she has glad fellowship for the happy, and medicine
for the wounded spirit, and calm communion for
gentle thoughts, which are the life of his moral being.
Let him seek her when he will, if his heart be anything
but dead, the poor sympathy of the world is a mockery
to her ministering influences. I dare go farther. The
power of nature over such a mind as I have described,
is, in cases of extreme mental suffering, or abandonment,
stronger than any other moral influence.[1] There is
something in its deep and serene beauty, inexpressibly
soothing to the diseased mind. It steals over it silently,
and gradually, like an invisible finger, erasing its dark
lines and removing its brooding shadows, and before he is
aware, he is loving, and enjoying, and feeling, as he did in
better days when his spirit was untroubled. To those who
see nothing about them but physical convenience, these
assertions may seem extravagant; but they are nevertheless
true; and blessed be the Author of our faculties,

there are some who know, by experience, that nature is
a friend and a physician to the sick and solitary spirit of
her worshipper.

Paul Lorraine, by the above definition, was a poet.
He had been what is called a strange child. It was a
way of saying that they did not understand him. His
unbounded gladness when gay, and his singular depression
at times, were unaccountable. He was as docile
and affectionate as a girl; but he would wander away
on a summer morning and neglect his books like a very
truant. He never could resist the stirrings of spring,
and the smallest bird that went singing over him on his
way to school, tempted him off irresistibly. His spirit
revolted at confinement in such seasons, and when chid
for absence, his spirit rose within him and he answered
indignantly. On one of these occasions he was punished
with a blow. I remember it as if it were yesterday.
He was perfectly transformed. The delicate, quiet boy
whom we expected to submit, and weep, sprang to his
feet with the sternness of a lion. He compressed his
beautiful lip, and his eye flashed for a moment—and
then he stood calm and immoveable till the blood gushed
from his nostrils. It was the last attempt to subdue
him, and he was left to his own waywardness.

At fourteen Paul Lorraine was the most engaging
being I ever saw. He was tall for his years, and surpassingly
graceful; but his face won you like a spell.
It was not its regularity; not its clear, transparent complexion;
not his fine eye, with its long, shadowy lashes;
but a delicious melancholy that was refreshing, like the
twilight, to look upon. He was happier than most boys;
often gay; but whatever the expression of the moment,
and whatever the change in features that were singularly
flexible, the calm, angelic seriousness of that look
was always there. His person was apparently slight;

but exquisite symmetry, and the exercise of his early
wanderings, had given it compactness, and the airy
glide of his step was almost unearthly. His bearing
was modest, and the habitual sadness of his countenance
chastened it much; but no one could be long in
his presence, without discovering that the chivalry of a
highminded boy was among his readiest impulses.

Is it singular that such a being should be loved? that
in the early maturity of uncommon sensibilities, he
should himself love, passionately? Perhaps it was the
fault of his character that he was too susceptible. He
certainly never could resist the delightful language of a
woman's unmeant preference; and if this is a sin, it is
the shadow of a virtue—a consequence inseparable from
the very delicacy which ennobled him. I am not sure
that the blush which betrayed the secret of Marion Graham,
was not the first shot from the quiver we read of;
but be that as it may, a truer affection never stirred the
fine chords of the human bosom than the love of Paul
Lorraine for that bewitching fairy. I have seen her often.
I have played with her, by daylight, and moonlight,
a thousand times; and I could describe her; but
he has done it himself, better. He wrote the verses
which follow in school, on a blank leaf of his Virgil:

At twentyfive, Paul had mingled with the world. He
had been caressed more than was good for his character,
and had dipped deeper into pleasure than his better angel
whispered him was innocent. He had learned to
wear armor upon his feelings, and could go free among
companions whose want of delicacy and consideration
would have wounded him, once, like arrows. He had
become what is called a man of the world, of the better
order; such an one as women select for a defender, and
men for an umpire in the nice distinctions of honor.
He was to a certain degree, master of himself, and always
a ruling spirit with others; a noble nature, that
had suffered plausible, but false principles to graft themselves
upon it. His worldly accomplishments, however,
were as yet but the dress of the masquerader, and his
heart was beating still, beneath it, with the fine impulses
that wrought upon his boyhood. He had kept the poetry
of his feelings apart from their profanation; and in the

midst of gaiety, it would visit him like a palpable touch,
and lead him away in a rich dream to the beautiful
treasures of his fancy. A reach of moonlight on a
wall, or a glimpse of a bright star through the window
of a ballroom, was talisman enough; and the contemplations
of his early years would come at such bidding,
and refresh him in the depth of a forgetfulness that
would seem to be total. How often have I followed
him from a crowded room, to see him lean over a balustrade,
and with the merry laugh of `fair women and
brave men' ringing in his ear, look up to the clear
heavens with the enthusiastic and simple fervor of a
child!

To Marion he was true. She had grown up as he
knew she must, with a heart too deep, and a mind too
ardent for the light frame which imprisoned them. She
was as delicate as a flower; but oh! her love was the
breath of her being, that would one day exhaust it.
She had the quick perceptions of her sex, united to the
strong, intuitive capacities of genius. Her acquirements
had elevated and expanded them; and without a
knowledge of the world, or the trick of fashion, she
stood alone among women like a `particular star,' and
won from all the unqualified admiration she did not value.

The love that Paul had begun with a boy's rash vow,
was matured into a strong affection. It was the whole
tide of his aim in life to be worthy of Marion. There
were obstacles in the way of his happiness, however,
which, in the opinion of his friends, made the attainment
difficult, if not improbable. He was not rich, and had
no apparent preference for any profession or business.
While this was the case, a connexion was, of course,
by the principles of this `working day world,' not to be
thought of; and the fear on this subject, by those who
knew the temper of his mind, was formidable. It had

been, however, a theme of much reflection to him, and
the subject, in his own feelings, wore a brighter aspect.
His views, it is certain, were yet romantic, and he did
not quite realize the dull servitude of business; but he
had naturally a penetration and common sense, which
were singular in a mind so gracefully gifted, and the
sweet vision of Marion Graham, was, in his own view,
a sufficient stimulus to all necessary sacrifice.

Society, however, had many claims upon him, and
with the irresistible fascination of his manner, it was not
strange that he became a favorite. It is a trying relation
to hold to the world, and true as it certainly was
that he was not as deliriously devoted to its pleasures as
those with whom he mingled, appearances often warranted
remark, which heavily clouded the hopes of
Marion. If his character had been better understood,
she would have been spared the trial; but the air which
he put on like a mantle, was to ordinary men the acquisition
of half a life; and the hours he gave to society,
and which were, to him, a relief from books, were to
ordinary men dissipation, unfitting them for all serious
employment. Who should know that the overflow of
his spirit was more than their whole capacity? Who
should know that the rich beauty of his language, and
the authentic elegance of his address, were the original
of their studied imitation? It was here that the candid,
and the lenient, misunderstood, and misrepresented him.
They believed upon common principles, and spoke with
the persuasion of truth, and it required all the philosophy
of Marion, not to tremble at the asserted tendency
of his career.

Lorraine was otherwise mistaken, and the result became
the fever of her spirit. I have said that he was
susceptible. He never ceased to love her. There was
never a moment when he would not have preferred her

immeasurably to a world of his reputed idols. But away
from her sweet voice, and under the bewildering influence
of music and excitement, he would be tempted into
a momentary homage which was repeated to her with
the coloring of scandal, till her heart was sick. It was
not that she believed them. She knew in her clear
judgment that his devoted manner was misconstrued,
and his native ardor too far above the level of his fellows
to be attributed to ordinary feeling; but the continual
dropping which wears away a stone is a true emblem
of the unquiet heart, and she wore away beneath it.

Unavoidable circumstances kept him at a distance,
and they seldom met. But with all the hallowed delicacy
and deep tenderness of their love, that brief intercourse
was constrained and painful. It was natural
that it should be so. Her cheek glowed in his presence
like the lip of a child; but a less practised eye might
discover the history of sad, weary thought beneath it.
He knew its intensity; and it was not strange, as she
leaned feebly on his arm, that dark thoughts overshadowed
his happiness. Could she be happy? This `wearing
away to the land of the leal' is not the stealthy
ministry they call it. It tells truly of its progress. And
it is only when the shortened pulse and the difficult
breath are wilfully disregarded, that the last call is a
surprise to the sufferer. Could she be happy? She
looked upon his noble forehead, and his manly beauty,
and asked herself if the siren world would pass him by
with its manifold temptations. It was no weakness of
her trust. But the bias of elements so warm, and the
workings of a spirit so unlike the tame temper of his
fellows, might surely warrant anxiety in one who waited
on their destiny. She remembered that the minute,
and, to him, almost contemptible policy of life
must be adopted; that his fine powers must be condensed

and turned to profit; that he must forget his
beautiful fancy, and forsake the attractions of frequented
circles, and be no more alone with nature; that he must
meet fraud, and calculation, and be patient with absurdity,
and familiar with the low artifice of the shrewd;
that he must change, totally; and for what? Riches!
And would he do it? Yes, Marion! To fold you to
his bosom, to take you to himself; shelter, protect,
cherish you, were enough to bear him on, were it ten
times the sacrifice.

I have often thought that the fine spirits who are
sometimes seen among us, were commissioned angels,
gifted with bodies that should release them gently when
their errand was done. It is to me almost a conviction.
The frames of the very purest human beings whom it is
our blessedness to know, are often so delicately balanced;
they seem so readily and lightly to depart when the
brightness of their life is overcast; to live so entirely to
bless, and to die so truly at the hour when the sorrow of
the world would overtake them, that I cannot think it a
dream.

Marion Graham was such an one. The fragile beauty
of her form was more the delicacy of an ephemeron
than the proper symmetry of a creature that would endure.
It was evident in her childhood that the first
shock given to her spirit would disengage it; and though
many wept, none wondered when she visibly failed and
assumed the treacherous loveliness of consumption.
The anxieties of which I have spoken, and the constant
fervor of a love which kept her heart feverish with excitement,
were too much, and it was apparent that she
was going down rapidly to the grave. It was not kept

from Lorraine, and he was prostrated with the blow.
He had feared and expected it long; but it came upon
him with the suddenness of a thunderbolt. The human
heart is a subtle deceiver, and never believes till truth
is inevitable; and that Marion would die—so soon! before
he had pressed her to his heart, and called her his
own, had, even to his darkest forebodings, seemed impossible.
I cannot describe his feelings. He could
not, adequately, himself. He was not permitted to go
to her while a shadow of a hope remained, and he sunk
into a stupor which seemed almost the calmness of delirium.
I went to him one day, and found him more
cheerful than usual. He had been writing the verses
copied below, and it had relieved him. He handed
them to me with a melancholy smile, and said they were
his last poetry.

A few weeks elapsed, and Lorraine looked hourly for
a summons to her death bed. It came, and he obeyed
it with a sick heart and a wasted frame. The right of
affection is acknowledged at such an hour, and he was
led to her room immediately on his arrival.

—Could that be Marion? She, who lay before him
with that radiant smile, was that the suffering, exhausted,
dying Marion he looked to see? He gazed a moment
on her face, and passed his hand over his eyes as
if to know that it was not a dream; then going up to the
bedside, he bent slowly and solemnly over her, and
kissed her delicate lips as if the breath of an angel had
made them holy. He was unprepared for a scene so
different from his conceptions of death. She was so
calm, so serene, so lovely in a decay that seems to
anticipate the excellent beauty of heaven; her eye was

so unnaturally bright, and her illumined features so like
the `shining faces' of inspired description, that he was
awed as by the presence of a spirit. She closed her
eyes, and was visibly agitated for a few minutes; then,
in a clear, sweet voice, she called him and he again
leant over her. She spoke of her love; her former unkind
fears, and present trust in his affection; of her
hope in God, and her desire that he should seek Him
earnestly; and requesting that he would once more
press his lips to hers, became insensible. Presently
she revived—shivered slightly—and, looking up to his
face with the smile of a seraph—died!

Spring, beautiful spring, with its delicious breath,
and its new leaves, and its gladness for every living
thing and creature under heaven, had come on, and
with the perfection of its last, lagging foliage we began
our wanderings. Lorraine was still an invalid, but better
than we had dared to hope. Sickness had dealt severely
with him the past winter, and a depression which he
could not shake off, chequered with occasional delirium,
threatened the total overthrow of his reason. He had
so far recovered now as to bear the fatigue of travelling,
and we trusted much to the sweet influences of the
season for a restoration of both body and mind.

We turned westward, and in a few days entered the
valley of the Mohawk. I could write a book upon its
sunsets, and the exquisite beauty of its banks and
waters, but I must pass it without description. We
loitered long and pleasantly upon its graceful windings,
and though it won no smile or evidence of exhilaration
from Lorraine, I could see that he was interested, and

now and then beguiled of his dark thoughts, and I hailed
it as a promise of better things.

On one of the balmiest mornings that ever broke, we
descended the rude steps leading to the bed of the
Trenton Falls. For some days I had perceived no
change in Lorraine, and I began to fear, that the appearances
upon which I had built my hopes, were but
the effect of physical excitement, and that his diseased
mind was beyond the skill of nature. We reached the
bottom, and stood upon the broad, solid floor, a hundred
feet down in the very heart of the rock, and in my
first feeling of astonishment, even my interest in his impressions
was forgotten; but its sublime grandeur had
awakened him, and when I recovered my self-possession,
he stood with his hands clasped, and his fine face
glowing with surprise and pleasure. His figure had assumed
the erect, airy freedom for which he was once
remarkable, and as we went on, the alacrity of his step
was delightful.

In a few minutes we stood below the first fall. The
whole volume of the river here descends fifty feet at a
single leap. The basin which receives it is worn into
a deep, circular abyss, and the dizzy whirl and tumult
of the water is almost overpowering. We ascended at
the side, and at a level with the top of the fall, passed
under an immense shelf, overshadowing us almost at the
height of a cloud, and advancing a little further, the
whole grand sweep of the river was before us. It was a
scene of which I had never before any conception, and
I confess myself inadequate to describe it. To stand
in the bed of a torrent, which flows for miles through a
solid rock, at more than a hundred feet below the surface;
to look up this tremendous gorge, and see, as far
as the eye can stretch, a river rushing on with amazing
velocity, leaping at every few rods over a fall, and sinking

into whirlpools, and sweeping round projecting rocks
constantly and violently; to see this, and then look up
as if from the depths of the earth to the giant walls that
confine it, piled apparently to the very sky, this is a sensation
to which no language that would not seem ridiculous
hyperbole could do justice.

When the first surprise is over, and the mind has become
familiar in a degree with the majestic scope of the
whole, there is something delightfully tranquillizing in
its individual features. We spent the whole day in
loitering idly up the stream, stopping at every fall, and
every wild sweep of the narrow passes, and resting by
the side of every gentle declivity where the water shot
smoothly down with a surface as polished as if its
arrowy velocity were the sleep of a transparent fountain.
There is nothing more beautiful than water. Look at
it when you will—in any of its thousand forms—in motion
or at rest—dripping from the moss of a spring, or
leaping in the thunder of a cataract—it has always the
same wonderful, surpassing beauty. Its clear transparency,
the grace of its every possible motion, the brilliant
sheen of its foam, and its majestic march in the
flood, are matched unitedly by no other element. Who
has not `blessed it unaware?' If objects that meet the
eye have any effect upon our happiness, water is among
the first of human blessings. It is the gladdest thing under
heaven. The inspired writers use it constantly as
an image for gladness, and `chrystal waters' is the
beautiful type of the Apocalypse for the joy of the New
Jerusalem. I bless God for its daily usefulness; but it
is because it is an every day blessing, that its splendor
is unnoticed. Take a child to it, and he claps his little
hands with delight; and present it to any one in a new
form, and his senses are bewildered. The man of warm
imagination, who looks for the first time on Niagara,

feels an impulse to leap in, which is almost irresistible.
What is it but a delirious fascination—the same spell
which, in the loveliness of a woman, or the glory of a
sunset cloud, draws you to the one, and makes you long
for the golden wings of the other?

I trust I shall be forgiven for this digression. It is
one of feeling. I have loved the water from my childhood.
It has cheated me of my sorrow when a homesick
boy, and I have laid beside it in the summer
days when an idle student, and deliciously forgot my
dry philosophy. It has always the same pure flow, and
the same low music, and is always ready to bear away
your thoughts upon its bosom, like the Hindoo's barque
of flowers, to an imaginative heaven.

I had not troubled Lorraine with conversation. I
thought it better to leave him to his own thoughts and
the sweet influences about him. It seemed to accord
with his feelings, and in the whole day's wanderings
he had scarcely spoken. Late in the afternoon
we retraced our steps, and as reascended from the
glen, and threaded the green path homeward, the golden
light of the sunset streamed into the wood, touching
the tassels of the pine, and the stooping boughs of
the hemlock, as if with living fire. It seemed as if the
beautiful forms of the elements were leagued against
Lorraine's melancholy, and as he went before me with
an elastic step, stopping to gaze up through the trees
at every reach of the sky, I thanked God in my heart
for the surpassing loveliness of nature.

The moon shone sweetly that night. Paul wrapped
himself in his cloak, and we went out to walk. The
light lay softly upon the hills. The thin exhalations rose
up and floated just palpably in the air; and a scent of
wild flowers was abroad, as if the fairies were dancing
on them in every green nook of the wilderness. I believe

moonlight is sent for the feelings. It certainly
makes some men better. There is an influence about
it which cannot be resisted, and which glides into the
heart with its subtle power, stealing away its grossness,
and covering its dark thoughts like the ministry of an
angel. Lorraine's mind had been aroused and prepared
for such visitation. It melted him to a child. We sat
down on a rock and he spoke for the first time of Marion.
He wept freely, but silently, and without pain; for
the fountains were broken up that had long been too full.
He said the intolerable load of his heart was shaken off;
that the image of Marion in the grave which had so
haunted him, was removed, and he could think of her
now as a pure spirit. Nature to his eye was changed.
He had felt all day as if its light were coming back,
and the moonlight was once more like the moonlight of
his boyhood. He did not feel that he should so soon
die.

My story is done. I have no catastrophe to tell.
My object was to write the history of a mind such as
I have known, and exhibit nature as the physician and
friend I believe she is. If my simple page should touch
pleasantly a chord in the heart of any lover of her
sweet influences, or lead one desponding mind to go
out and be happy, its end will be answered.