 |
 | The poems, sacred, passionate, and humorous, of Nathaniel Parker Willis |  |
114
BEAUTY AFTER DEATH.
“I sleep, but my heart waketh.”
[OMITTED] Death's blight upon the brow—
His iron hand's cold impress on the lip—
Are not alike relentless unto all.
Not always, when made ready for the grave,
Are the beloved ones beautiful no more.
Nor all alike to the bright throng who wait
To give the welcome at the gate of heaven,
Seem the pale comers from this world away.
And they,—the loveliest to the eyes that mourn,—
They, of the blest throng of the sin-forgiven,
Who fairest seem to angels—seldom they
Were of the living who are called most fair—
Seldom the young, the gifted, or the strong.
115
Tender OF HEART—THESE, WITH THEIR PARTING BREATH,
Put ON THE SAINTLY BEAUTY OF THE BLEST!
For, oh how well that miracle is known
To those who oftenest look upon the dead:—
That, when life's changing features first are still—
When first, with death's transparent calm, we see
Through the far depths what pearl was hidden there—
Then, o'er the features of the blest ones “known
For their good works,” like Dorcas—those whose “alms
Are in remembrance before God,” like his
To whom the “angel in bright clothing” came,
Cornelius the centurion—there beams
Light, from the warm heart that was shrined within—
Light from the trembling of the pitying tear,
Th'undying lamp lit for the sad and lone!
And, by that light—a smile upon the lips,
Unquenched by life's last agony—we know
That such are they who are beloved of God:—
Made fairer, even in Death's icy sleep,
By the unwearied “waking of the heart”
Which smiles as they go beautiful to Heaven.
187
FRAGMENT OF A POEM,
WRITTEN FOR A MOTHER, AFTER THE DEATH OF A BELOVED AND BEAUTIFUL DAUGHTER.
That she we loved is with us, here, no more,We tearfully and mournfully may say—
But not so mournfully that she is gone.
Like one uplifted in a march by night,
And borne on, to the morning, 'tis to her
But an unwearied minute to the dawn;
While we, with torn feet, on the darkling way,
Follow to that same home, where she's at rest
Waiting to give us welcome. Oh sad mother,
The voice, within the soft lips where your love
Look'd for its music, is all hush'd, we know!
The roses that it parted have grown pale.
But the same voice, with its accustom'd tones,
Lends to her sweet thoughts utterance where she is;
And oh, while, in the softer air of Heaven,
It unlearns only its complaining—say!—
Is't well to wish, that, even to the ears
That cannot sleep with aching for its music,
'Twere audible again? [OMITTED]
189
WAKING-DREAM IN SICKNESS.
(YALE COLLEGE, 1827.)
The night creeps wearily. I lit my lampTo hide the brightness of that morning star
That mocks me with a sleeplessness like mine—
Coldly and glitteringly apart and lone!
How unlike life it is—this sickness-waking!
Conscious of life's enfeebled link no more
The soul feels death-released; and, as the star
Wakes not the colors of earth's slumbering flowers,
Nor warms the darkness of the mountain brow
From which so pathlessly it soars away,
So, with strange lift, unnaturally bright,
The sick man's thought soars tracklessly and far:
The pale cheek on the pillow, and the pulse
Of the sad silent heart, made deathlier only
By thought in which their faintness has no share!
191
TO CHARLES ROUX, OF SWITZERLAND.
(WRITTEN IN HIS ALBUM WHEN HE WAS THE AUTHOR'S TEACHER IN MODERN LANGUAGES, YALE COLLEGE, 1827.)
I would not leave that land, if I were thou—
That glorious land of mountain and of flood,
Whereon is graven God.
As if its hills were chosen for Earth's brow,
And its loud torrents gave the words he spoke,
Leaping from rock to rock.
That glorious land of mountain and of flood,
Whereon is graven God.
As if its hills were chosen for Earth's brow,
And its loud torrents gave the words he spoke,
Leaping from rock to rock.
I would not leave it—for its children gave
Their blood like water, for a word, “be FREE!”
Their last breath, “Liberty!”
Till Switzerland was made a mighty grave—
A land where heroes like a harvest fell—
The land of William Tell.
Their blood like water, for a word, “be FREE!”
Their last breath, “Liberty!”
Till Switzerland was made a mighty grave—
A land where heroes like a harvest fell—
The land of William Tell.
I would not leave it:—yet the holy wing
Of freedom shadoweth this land, as thine!
And when I call it “mine,”
I make myself greater than a king.
We welcome freemen—and we welcome thee—
Dwell with us, and BE FREE!
Of freedom shadoweth this land, as thine!
And when I call it “mine,”
I make myself greater than a king.
We welcome freemen—and we welcome thee—
Dwell with us, and BE FREE!
233
THE THOUGHT ANGEL.
A WAKING AND SLEEPING DREAM.
Night is the sick man's day,
For the soul wakens as the body fails.
I had told the weary hours; but, with the hush
Of midnight, my last memory of pain
Behold, all calmly with it, on the cloud,
Rode a wing'd angel with an open book;
And—of the hearts it moved—and of the dreams,
Passions, and hopes it call'd on as it flew—
Of all it gave a voice to, that had else
Slumber'd unutter'd in the Thought-ruled world—
That angel kept a record.
For the soul wakens as the body fails.
I had told the weary hours; but, with the hush
Of midnight, my last memory of pain
236
Rode a wing'd angel with an open book;
And—of the hearts it moved—and of the dreams,
Passions, and hopes it call'd on as it flew—
Of all it gave a voice to, that had else
Slumber'd unutter'd in the Thought-ruled world—
That angel kept a record.
“Thou, hereafter,”
Said a voice near me, “shalt that record hear;
For, in thy using of that gift of power,
Speeding WHAT Thought THOU WILT ACROSS THE WORLD,
Thou speak'st with the pervading voice of God,
And, as thy sway of the world's heart, will be
The reckoning with thy Maker. Human Thought,
Oh poet, lightly may take wondrous wings.
Thy careless link binds words to travel far.
But oh, take heed!—for see—by dream-revealing—
How Thoughts of power with angels go attended,
Outfleeting never the calm pen that writes
Their history for Heaven!”
Said a voice near me, “shalt that record hear;
For, in thy using of that gift of power,
Speeding WHAT Thought THOU WILT ACROSS THE WORLD,
Thou speak'st with the pervading voice of God,
And, as thy sway of the world's heart, will be
The reckoning with thy Maker. Human Thought,
Oh poet, lightly may take wondrous wings.
Thy careless link binds words to travel far.
But oh, take heed!—for see—by dream-revealing—
How Thoughts of power with angels go attended,
Outfleeting never the calm pen that writes
Their history for Heaven!”
The sun shone in
Upon my wind-stirr'd curtains, and I woke.
And this had been a dream. 'Tis sometimes so:—
We dream ourselves what we have striven to be,
And hear what had been well for us to hear,
Did our dreams shadow what we are.
Upon my wind-stirr'd curtains, and I woke.
And this had been a dream. 'Tis sometimes so:—
We dream ourselves what we have striven to be,
And hear what had been well for us to hear,
Did our dreams shadow what we are.
237
DESPONDENCY IN SPRING.
Beautiful robin! with thy feathers redContrasting, flower-like, with the soft green tree,
Making thy little flights, as thou art led
By things that tempt a simple one like thee.
I would that thou couldst warble me to tears
As lightly as the birds of other years!
Idly to lie beneath an April sun,
Pressing the perfume from the tender grass;
To watch a joyous rivulet leap on
With the clear tinkle of a music glass,
And, as I saw the early robin pass,
To hear him through his little compass run—
Only with joys like these to overflow
Is happiness my heart will no more know.
263
SPRING.
“L'onda del mar divisa
Bagna la valle e l'monte,
Va passegiera
In flume,
Va prigionera
In fonte,
Mormora sempre e geme
Fin che non torna al mar.”
Metastasio.
Bagna la valle e l'monte,
Va passegiera
In flume,
Va prigionera
In fonte,
Mormora sempre e geme
Fin che non torna al mar.”
Metastasio.
The Spring is here—the delicate-footed May,
With its slight fingers full of leaves and flowers,
And with it comes a thirst to be away,
In lovelier scenes to pass these sweeter hours,
A feeling like the worm's awakening wings,
Wild for companionship with swifter things.
With its slight fingers full of leaves and flowers,
And with it comes a thirst to be away,
In lovelier scenes to pass these sweeter hours,
A feeling like the worm's awakening wings,
Wild for companionship with swifter things.
264
We pass out from the city's feverish hum,
To find refreshment in the silent woods;
And nature, that is beautiful and dumb,
Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broods—
Yet, even there, a restless thought will steal,
To teach the indolent heart it still must feel.
To find refreshment in the silent woods;
And nature, that is beautiful and dumb,
Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broods—
Yet, even there, a restless thought will steal,
To teach the indolent heart it still must feel.
Strange, that the audible stillness of the noon,
The waters tripping with their silver feet,
The turning to the light of leaves in June,
And the light whisper as their edges meet—
Strange—that they fill not, with their tranquil tone,
The spirit, walking in their midst alone.
The waters tripping with their silver feet,
The turning to the light of leaves in June,
And the light whisper as their edges meet—
Strange—that they fill not, with their tranquil tone,
The spirit, walking in their midst alone.
There's no contentment in a world like this,
Save in forgetting the immortal dream;
We may not gaze upon the stars of bliss,
That through the cloud-rifts radiantly stream;
Bird-like, the prison'd soul will lift its eye
And pine till it is hooded from the sky.
Save in forgetting the immortal dream;
We may not gaze upon the stars of bliss,
That through the cloud-rifts radiantly stream;
Bird-like, the prison'd soul will lift its eye
And pine till it is hooded from the sky.
291
BIRTHDAY IN A FOREIGN ISLE.
'Tis the day my mother bore her son!
She has thought since morn of her absent one.
At break of day she remember'd me
With trembling lip and bended knee;
And, at the hour of morning prayer,
She has fix'd her eye on the empty chair;
And, as my father bow'd to pray,
For one much loved and far away,
My mother's heart was stirr'd anew,
And tears have gush'd her fingers through;
And with moving lips and low-bent head,
Her soul to heaven has melting fled.
She has thought since morn of her absent one.
At break of day she remember'd me
With trembling lip and bended knee;
And, at the hour of morning prayer,
She has fix'd her eye on the empty chair;
And, as my father bow'd to pray,
For one much loved and far away,
My mother's heart was stirr'd anew,
And tears have gush'd her fingers through;
And with moving lips and low-bent head,
Her soul to heaven has melting fled.
Mother! dear mother! I've wander'd long,
And must wander still, in these lands of song.
My cheek is burnt with eastern suns;
My boyish blood more tamely runs:
My speech is cold, my bosom seal'd;
My once free nature check'd and steel'd;
I have found the world so unlike thee;
I have been so forced a rock to be;
It has froze my heart!—of my mother only,
When the hours are sad, in places lonely—
Only of thee—does a thought go by
That leaves a tear in my weary eye:
I see thy smile in the clouded air;
I feel thy hand in my wind-stirr'd hair;
I hear thy voice, with its pleading tone,
When else I had felt in the world alone—
So alone, that there seem'd to be
Only my mother 'twixt heaven and me!
And must wander still, in these lands of song.
My cheek is burnt with eastern suns;
My boyish blood more tamely runs:
My speech is cold, my bosom seal'd;
My once free nature check'd and steel'd;
I have found the world so unlike thee;
I have been so forced a rock to be;
It has froze my heart!—of my mother only,
When the hours are sad, in places lonely—
Only of thee—does a thought go by
That leaves a tear in my weary eye:
I see thy smile in the clouded air;
I feel thy hand in my wind-stirr'd hair;
292
When else I had felt in the world alone—
So alone, that there seem'd to be
Only my mother 'twixt heaven and me!
Mother! dear mother! the feeling nurst
As I hung at thy bosom, clung round thee first,
'Twas the earliest link in love's warm chain;
'Tis the only one that will long remain;
And as, year by year, and day by day,
Some friend still trusted drops away,
Mother! dear mother! oh, dost thou see
How the shorten'd chain brings me nearer thee!
As I hung at thy bosom, clung round thee first,
'Twas the earliest link in love's warm chain;
'Tis the only one that will long remain;
And as, year by year, and day by day,
Some friend still trusted drops away,
Mother! dear mother! oh, dost thou see
How the shorten'd chain brings me nearer thee!
Malta, Jan. 20, 1834.
293
THE BROKEN BRACELET.
'Twas broken in the gliding dance,
When thou wert in thy dream of power,
When lip and motion, smile and glance
Were lovely all—the belle's bright hour.
The light lay soft upon thy brow,
The music melted in thine ear,
And one, perchance forgotten now,
With 'wilder'd thoughts, stood musing near,
Marvelling not that links of gold
A pulse like thine had not controll'd.
When thou wert in thy dream of power,
When lip and motion, smile and glance
Were lovely all—the belle's bright hour.
294
The music melted in thine ear,
And one, perchance forgotten now,
With 'wilder'd thoughts, stood musing near,
Marvelling not that links of gold
A pulse like thine had not controll'd.
'Tis midnight now—the dancers gone—
And thou in thy rich dreams asleep;
And I, awake, am gazing on
The fragments given me to keep.
I think of every glowing vein
That ran beneath these links of gold,
And wonder if a thrill of pain
Made those bright channels ever cold!
With gifts like thine, I cannot think
Grief ever chill'd this broken link.
And thou in thy rich dreams asleep;
And I, awake, am gazing on
The fragments given me to keep.
I think of every glowing vein
That ran beneath these links of gold,
And wonder if a thrill of pain
Made those bright channels ever cold!
With gifts like thine, I cannot think
Grief ever chill'd this broken link.
Good night! 'tis little now to thee
That in my ear thy words were spoken,
And thou will think of them, and me,
As long as of the bracelet broken.
And thus is riven many a chain
That thou hast fasten'd but to break,
And thus thou'lt sink to sleep again,
As careless if another wake;
The only thought thy heart can rend
Is—what the fellow'll charge to mend.
That in my ear thy words were spoken,
And thou will think of them, and me,
As long as of the bracelet broken.
And thus is riven many a chain
That thou hast fasten'd but to break,
And thus thou'lt sink to sleep again,
As careless if another wake;
The only thought thy heart can rend
Is—what the fellow'll charge to mend.
295
TO JULIA GRISI,
AFTER HEARING HER IN “ANNA BOLENA.”
When the rose is brightest,Its bloom will soonest die;
When burns the meteor brightest,
'Twill vanish from the sky.
If Death but wait until delight
O'errun the heart, like wine,
And break the cup when brimming quite,
I die—for thou hast pour'd to-night
The last drop into mine.
298
REVERIES.
AN EARLY POEM.
I am an eldest son. My years
Have been like golden moments nursed;
And if I ever wept, my tears
From gentle fountains, gently burst.
My mother's kiss came with my prayer;
My father's blessing with my sleep;
My sister's words like music were,
And how could I have learn'd to weep?
I did not—and have worn a brow
Of sunshine, even until now.
Have been like golden moments nursed;
And if I ever wept, my tears
From gentle fountains, gently burst.
My mother's kiss came with my prayer;
My father's blessing with my sleep;
299
And how could I have learn'd to weep?
I did not—and have worn a brow
Of sunshine, even until now.
Love comes to such like nature's law,
As waters swelling to a gush;
And thus, if light or life I saw,
My feelings to their source would rush.
A sunny leaf, a flitting shade,
A tint of autumn, moonlight, aught
By which this glorious world is made
So beautiful, my spirit caught—
And thrilling pleasure, and strange power
To love and to be blest rushed by,
And I have lived an angel's hour,
While sadder spirits long'd to die.
As waters swelling to a gush;
And thus, if light or life I saw,
My feelings to their source would rush.
A sunny leaf, a flitting shade,
A tint of autumn, moonlight, aught
By which this glorious world is made
So beautiful, my spirit caught—
And thrilling pleasure, and strange power
To love and to be blest rushed by,
And I have lived an angel's hour,
While sadder spirits long'd to die.
You well might deem that I should look
On coming days, as looks the sun
On leaf and tree, and find the book
Of nature seem a brilliant one.
Like him I look'd upon the side
The light in my own eye made bright;
And ever found the shadows glide
Like guilty spirits from my sight.
What marvel then that I should build
The dreams this loitering tale would tell,
Of light, and that my thought should gild
The airy elements too well?
On coming days, as looks the sun
On leaf and tree, and find the book
Of nature seem a brilliant one.
Like him I look'd upon the side
The light in my own eye made bright;
And ever found the shadows glide
Like guilty spirits from my sight.
What marvel then that I should build
The dreams this loitering tale would tell,
Of light, and that my thought should gild
The airy elements too well?
| The poems, sacred, passionate, and humorous, of Nathaniel Parker Willis | |