The Project Gutenberg eBook ofFugitive Poetry

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofFugitive PoetryThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Fugitive PoetryAuthor: Nathaniel Parker WillisRelease date: April 26, 2010 [eBook #32146]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Louise Davies, Christine D. and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FUGITIVE POETRY ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Fugitive PoetryAuthor: Nathaniel Parker WillisRelease date: April 26, 2010 [eBook #32146]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Louise Davies, Christine D. and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

Title: Fugitive Poetry

Author: Nathaniel Parker Willis

Release date: April 26, 2010 [eBook #32146]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Louise Davies, Christine D. and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FUGITIVE POETRY ***

FUGITIVE POETRY.

BY N.P. WILLIS.

"If, however, I can, by lucky chance, in these days of evil, rub out one wrinkle from the brow of care, or beguile the heavy heart of one moment of sorrow; if I can, now and then, penetrate the gathering film of misanthropy, prompt a benevolent view of human nature, and make my reader more in good humor with his fellow beings and himself, surely, surely, I shall not then have written entirely in vain."Washington Irving.

Washington Irving.

BOSTON:PUBLISHED BY PEIRCE AND WILLIAMS.1829.

DISTRICT OF MASSACHUSETTS,to wit:DISTRICT CLERK'S OFFICE.Be it remembered, that on the eleventh day of September, A.D. 1829, in the fifty-fourth year of the Independence of the United States of America,Peirce and Williams, of the said district, have deposited in this office the title of a book, the right whereof they claim as proprietors in the words following,to wit:"Fugitive Poetry: By N.P.Willis."'If, however, I can, by lucky chance, in these days of evil, rub out one wrinkle from the brow of care, or beguile the heart of one moment of sorrow; if I can, now and then, penetrate the gathering film of misanthropy, prompt a benevolent view of human nature, and make my reader more in good humor with his fellow beings, and himself, surely, surely, I shall not then have written entirely in vain.'Washington Irving."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 Districtof Massachusetts.

DISTRICT OF MASSACHUSETTS,to wit:

DISTRICT CLERK'S OFFICE.

Be it remembered, that on the eleventh day of September, A.D. 1829, in the fifty-fourth year of the Independence of the United States of America,Peirce and Williams, of the said district, have deposited in this office the title of a book, the right whereof they claim as proprietors in the words following,to wit:

"Fugitive Poetry: By N.P.Willis.

"'If, however, I can, by lucky chance, in these days of evil, rub out one wrinkle from the brow of care, or beguile the heart of one moment of sorrow; if I can, now and then, penetrate the gathering film of misanthropy, prompt a benevolent view of human nature, and make my reader more in good humor with his fellow beings, and himself, surely, surely, I shall not then have written entirely in vain.'Washington Irving."

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 Districtof Massachusetts.

GEORGE JAMES PUMPELLY,

MY BEST AND MOST VALUED FRIEND,

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED

BY THE AUTHOR.

Page.The Shunamite9Scene in Gethsemane13Contemplation15Sketch of a Schoolfellow18Idleness21On the Death of Edward Payson D.D.24The Tri-Portrait26January 1st, 182829January 1st, 182930Psyche, before the Tribunal of Venus32On seeing a beautiful Boy at play34The Child's first impression of a Star36Dedication Hymn37The Baptism38The Table of Emerald39The Annoyer42Starlight44Lassitude45Roaring Brook46The Declaration48Isabel49Mere Accident51The Earl's Minstrel53The Serenade57Hero60April62To ——64Twenty-two66On the Picture of a child playing. ByFisher.68To a sleeping Boy70Sonnet73Sonnet74Sonnet75Sonnet76Sonnet77Andre's Request78Discrimination79The Solitary80Lines on the death of Miss Fanny V. Apthorp82A Portrait83May84On seeing through a window a Belle completing her Toilet for a Ball86To a Belle88

It was a sultry day of summer time.The sun pour'd down upon the ripen'd grainWith quivering heat, and the suspended leavesHung motionless. The cattle on the hillsStood still, and the divided flock were allLaying their nostrils to the cooling roots,And the sky look'd like silver, and it seem'dAs if the air had fainted, and the pulseOf nature had run down, and ceas'd to beat.'Haste thee, my child!' the Syrian mother said,'Thy father is athirst'—and from the depthsOf the cool well under the leaning tree,She drew refreshing water, and with thoughtsOf God's sweet goodness stirring at her heart,She bless'd her beautiful boy, and to his wayCommitted him. And he went lightly on,With his soft hands press'd closely to the coolStone vessel, and his little naked feetLifted with watchful care, and o'er the hills,And thro' the light green hollows, where the lambsGo for the tender grass, he kept his way,Wiling its distance with his simple thoughts,Till, in the wilderness of sheaves, with browsThrobbing with heat, he set his burden down.Childhood is restless ever, and the boyStay'd not within the shadow of the tree,But with a joyous industry went forthInto the reapers' places, and bound upHis tiny sheaves, and plaited cunninglyThe pliant withs out of the shining straw,Cheering their labor on, till they forgotThe very weariness of their stooping toilIn the beguiling of his earnest mirth.Presently he was silent, and his eyeClosed as with dizzy pain, and with his handPress'd hard upon his forehead, and his breastHeaving with the suppression of a cry,He uttered a faint murmur, and fell backUpon the loosen'd sheaf, insensible.They bore him to his mother, and he layUpon her knees till noon—and then he died!She had watch'd every breath, and kept her handSoft on his forehead, and gaz'd in uponThe dreamy languor of his listless eye,And she had laid back all his sunny curls,And kiss'd his delicate lip, and lifted himInto her bosom, till her heart grew strong—His beauty was so unlike death! She leanedOver him now, that she might catch the lowSweet music of his breath, that she had learn'dTo love when he was slumbering at her sideIn his unconscious infancy——"So still!'Tis a soft sleep! How beautiful he lies,With his fair forehead, and the rosy veinsPlaying so freshly in his sunny cheek!How could they say that he would die! Oh God!I could not lose him! I have treasured allHis childhood in my heart, and even now,As he has slept, my memory has been there,Counting like ingots all his winning ways—His unforgotten sweetness——"Yet so still!—How like this breathless slumber is to death!I could believe that in that bosom nowThere were no pulse—it beats so languidly!I cannot see it stir; but his red lip!—Death would not be so very beautiful!And that half smile—would death have leftthatthere?—And should I not have felt that he would die?And have I not wept over him?—and prayedMorning and night for him?—andcouldhe die?—No—God will keep him. He will be my prideMany long years to come, and this fair hairWill darken like his father's, and his eyeBe of a deeper blue when he is grown;And he will be so tall, and I shall lookWith such a pride upon him!—Heto die!"And the fond mother lifted his soft curls,And smiled, as if 'twere mockery to thinkThat such fair things could perish——SuddenlyHer hand shrunk from him, and the color fledFrom her fix'd lip, and her supporting kneesWere shook beneath her child. Her hand had touch'dHis forehead, as she dallied with his hair—And it was cold—like clay!—slow—very slowCame the misgiving that her child was dead.She sat a moment and her eyes were clos'dIn a still prayer for strength, and then she tookHis little hand and press'd it earnestly—And put her lip to his—and look'd againFearfully on him—and then, bending low,She whisper'd in his ear, "My son!—My son!"And as the echo died, and not a soundBroke on the stillness, and he lay there still,Motionless on her knee—the truthwouldcome!And with a sharp, quick cry, as if her heartWere crush'd, she lifted him and held him closeInto her bosom—with a mother's thought—As if death had no power to touch him there!The man of God came forth, and led the childUnto his mother, and went on his way.And he was there—her beautiful—her own—Living and smiling on her—with his armsFolded about her neck, and his warm breathBreathing upon her lips, and in her earThe music of his gentle voice once more!Oh for a burning word that would expressThe measure of a mother's holy joy,When God has given back to her her childFrom death's dark portal! It surpasseth words.

'Haste thee, my child!' the Syrian mother said,'Thy father is athirst'—and from the depthsOf the cool well under the leaning tree,She drew refreshing water, and with thoughtsOf God's sweet goodness stirring at her heart,She bless'd her beautiful boy, and to his wayCommitted him. And he went lightly on,With his soft hands press'd closely to the coolStone vessel, and his little naked feetLifted with watchful care, and o'er the hills,And thro' the light green hollows, where the lambsGo for the tender grass, he kept his way,Wiling its distance with his simple thoughts,Till, in the wilderness of sheaves, with browsThrobbing with heat, he set his burden down.

Childhood is restless ever, and the boyStay'd not within the shadow of the tree,But with a joyous industry went forthInto the reapers' places, and bound upHis tiny sheaves, and plaited cunninglyThe pliant withs out of the shining straw,Cheering their labor on, till they forgotThe very weariness of their stooping toilIn the beguiling of his earnest mirth.Presently he was silent, and his eyeClosed as with dizzy pain, and with his handPress'd hard upon his forehead, and his breastHeaving with the suppression of a cry,He uttered a faint murmur, and fell backUpon the loosen'd sheaf, insensible.

They bore him to his mother, and he layUpon her knees till noon—and then he died!She had watch'd every breath, and kept her handSoft on his forehead, and gaz'd in uponThe dreamy languor of his listless eye,And she had laid back all his sunny curls,And kiss'd his delicate lip, and lifted himInto her bosom, till her heart grew strong—His beauty was so unlike death! She leanedOver him now, that she might catch the lowSweet music of his breath, that she had learn'dTo love when he was slumbering at her sideIn his unconscious infancy——"So still!'Tis a soft sleep! How beautiful he lies,With his fair forehead, and the rosy veinsPlaying so freshly in his sunny cheek!How could they say that he would die! Oh God!I could not lose him! I have treasured allHis childhood in my heart, and even now,As he has slept, my memory has been there,Counting like ingots all his winning ways—His unforgotten sweetness——"Yet so still!—How like this breathless slumber is to death!I could believe that in that bosom nowThere were no pulse—it beats so languidly!I cannot see it stir; but his red lip!—Death would not be so very beautiful!And that half smile—would death have leftthatthere?—And should I not have felt that he would die?And have I not wept over him?—and prayedMorning and night for him?—andcouldhe die?—No—God will keep him. He will be my prideMany long years to come, and this fair hairWill darken like his father's, and his eyeBe of a deeper blue when he is grown;And he will be so tall, and I shall lookWith such a pride upon him!—Heto die!"And the fond mother lifted his soft curls,And smiled, as if 'twere mockery to thinkThat such fair things could perish——SuddenlyHer hand shrunk from him, and the color fledFrom her fix'd lip, and her supporting kneesWere shook beneath her child. Her hand had touch'dHis forehead, as she dallied with his hair—And it was cold—like clay!—slow—very slowCame the misgiving that her child was dead.She sat a moment and her eyes were clos'dIn a still prayer for strength, and then she tookHis little hand and press'd it earnestly—And put her lip to his—and look'd againFearfully on him—and then, bending low,She whisper'd in his ear, "My son!—My son!"And as the echo died, and not a soundBroke on the stillness, and he lay there still,Motionless on her knee—the truthwouldcome!And with a sharp, quick cry, as if her heartWere crush'd, she lifted him and held him closeInto her bosom—with a mother's thought—As if death had no power to touch him there!

The man of God came forth, and led the childUnto his mother, and went on his way.And he was there—her beautiful—her own—Living and smiling on her—with his armsFolded about her neck, and his warm breathBreathing upon her lips, and in her earThe music of his gentle voice once more!

Oh for a burning word that would expressThe measure of a mother's holy joy,When God has given back to her her childFrom death's dark portal! It surpasseth words.

[A]2Kings, iv. 18-37.

The moon was shining yet. The Orient's brow,Set with the morning star, was not yet dim;And the deep silence which subdues the breathLike a strong feeling, hung upon the worldAs sleep upon the pulses of a child.'Twas the last watch of night. Gethsemane,With its bath'd leaves of silver, seem'd dissolv'dIn visible stillness, and as Jesus' voiceWith its bewildering sweetness met the earOf his disciples, it vibrated onLike the first whisper in a silent world.They came on slowly. Heaviness oppress'dThe Saviour's heart, and when the kindnessesOf his deep love were pour'd, he felt the needOf near communion, for his gift of strengthWas wasted by the spirit's weariness.He left them there, and went a little on,And in the depth of that hush'd silentness,Alone with God, he fell upon his face,And as his heart was broken with the rushOf his surpassing agony, and death,Wrung to him from a dying universe,Were mightier than the Son of man could bear,He gave his sorrows way, and in the deepProstration of his soul, breathed out the prayer,"Father, if it be possible with thee,Let this cup pass from me." Oh, how a word,Like the forc'd drop before the fountain breaks,Stilleth the press of human agony!The Saviour felt its quiet in his soul;And though his strength was weakness, and the lightWhich led him on till now was sorely dim,He breathed a new submission—"Not my will,But thine be done, oh Father!" As he spoke,Voices were heard in heaven, and music stoleOut from the chambers of the vaulted sky,As if the stars were swept like instruments.No cloud was visible, but radiant wingsWere coming with a silvery rush to earth,And as the Saviour rose, a glorious one,With an illumin'd forehead, and the lightWhose fountain is the mystery of GodEncalm'd within his eye, bow'd down to him,And nerv'd him with a ministry of strength.It was enough—and with his godlike browRe-written, of his Father's messenger,With meekness, whose divinity is moreThan power and glory, he return'd againTo his disciples, and awak'd their sleep,For "he that should betray him was at hand."

'They are all up—the innumerable stars—And hold their place in heaven. My eyes have beenSearching the pearly depths through which they springLike beautiful creations, till I feelAs if it were a new and perfect world,Waiting in silence for the word of GodTo breathe it into motion. There they stand,Shining in order, like a living hymnWritten in light, awaking at the breathOf the celestial dawn, and praising HimWho made them, with the harmony of spheres.I would I had an angel's ear to listThat melody! I would that I might floatUp in that boundless element, and feelIts ravishing vibrations, like a pulseBeating in heaven! My spirit is athirstFor music—rarer music! I would batheMy soul in a serener atmosphereThan this! I long to mingle with the flockLed by the "living waters," and lie downIn the "green pastures" of the better land!When wilt thou break, dull fetter! When shall IGather my wings; and, like a rushing thought,Stretch onward, star by star, up into heaven!'Thus mused Alethe. She was one to whomLife had been like the witching of a dream,Of an untroubled sweetness. She was bornOf a high race, and laid upon the knee,With her soft eye perusing listlesslyThe fretted roof, or, on Mosaic floors,Grasped at the tessellated squares, inwroughtWith metals curiously. Her childhood pass'dLike faery—amid fountains and green haunts—Trying her little feet upon a lawnOf velvet evenness, and hiding flowersIn her sweet bosom, as it were a fairAnd pearly altar to crush incense on.Her youth—oh! that was queenly! She was likeA dream of poetry that may not beWritten or told—exceeding beautiful!And so came worshippers; and rank bow'd down,And breathed upon her heart, as with a breathOf pride, and bound her forehead gorgeouslyWith dazzling scorn, and gave unto her stepA majesty as if she trod the sea,And the proud waves, unbidden, lifted her.And so she grew to woman—her mere lookStrong as a monarch's signet, and her handThe ambition of a kingdom.From all thisTurn'd her high heart away! She had a mind,Deep and immortal, and it would not feedOn pageantry. She thirsted for a springOf a serener element, and drankPhilosophy, and for a little whileShe was allay'd—till, presently, it turn'dBitter within her, and her spirit grewFaint for undying waters.Then she cameTo the pure fount of God—and is athirstNo more—save when the "fever of the world"Falleth upon her, she will go, sometimes,Out in the starlight quietness, and breatheA holy aspiration after heaven!

Thus mused Alethe. She was one to whomLife had been like the witching of a dream,Of an untroubled sweetness. She was bornOf a high race, and laid upon the knee,With her soft eye perusing listlesslyThe fretted roof, or, on Mosaic floors,Grasped at the tessellated squares, inwroughtWith metals curiously. Her childhood pass'dLike faery—amid fountains and green haunts—Trying her little feet upon a lawnOf velvet evenness, and hiding flowersIn her sweet bosom, as it were a fairAnd pearly altar to crush incense on.Her youth—oh! that was queenly! She was likeA dream of poetry that may not beWritten or told—exceeding beautiful!And so came worshippers; and rank bow'd down,And breathed upon her heart, as with a breathOf pride, and bound her forehead gorgeouslyWith dazzling scorn, and gave unto her stepA majesty as if she trod the sea,And the proud waves, unbidden, lifted her.And so she grew to woman—her mere lookStrong as a monarch's signet, and her handThe ambition of a kingdom.

From all thisTurn'd her high heart away! She had a mind,Deep and immortal, and it would not feedOn pageantry. She thirsted for a springOf a serener element, and drankPhilosophy, and for a little whileShe was allay'd—till, presently, it turn'dBitter within her, and her spirit grewFaint for undying waters.

Then she cameTo the pure fount of God—and is athirstNo more—save when the "fever of the world"Falleth upon her, she will go, sometimes,Out in the starlight quietness, and breatheA holy aspiration after heaven!

He sat by me in school. His face is nowVividly in my mind, as if he wentFrom me but yesterday—its pleasant smileAnd the rich, joyous laughter of his eye,And the free play of his unhaughty lip,So redolent of his heart! He was not fair,Nor singular, nor over-fond of books,And never melancholy when alone.He was the heartiest in the ring, the lastHome from the summer's wanderings, and the firstOver the threshold when the school was done.All of us loved him. We shall speak his nameIn the far years to come, and think of himWhen we have lost life's simplest passages,And pray for him—forgetting he is dead—Life was in him so passing beautiful!His childhood had been wasted in the closeAnd airless city. He had never thoughtThat the blue sky was ample, or the starsMany in heaven, or the chainless windOf a medicinal freshness. He had learn'dPerilous tricks of manhood, and his handWas ready, and his confidence in himselfBold as a quarreller's. Then he came awayTo the unshelter'd hills, and brought an eyeNew as a babe's to nature, and an earAs ignorant of its music. He was sad.The broad hill sides seem'd desolate, and the woodsGloomy and dim, and the perpetual soundOf wind and waters and unquiet leavesLike the monotony of a dirge. He pinedFor the familiar things until his heartSicken'd for home!—and so he stole awayTo the most silent places, and lay downTo weep upon the mosses of the slopes,And follow'd listlessly the silver streams,Till he found out the unsunn'd shadowings,And the green openings to the sky, and grewFond of them all insensibly. He foundSweet company in the brooks, and loved to sitAnd bathe his fingers wantonly, and feelThe wind upon his forehead; and the leavesTook a beguiling whisper to his ear,And the bird-voices music, and the blastSwept like an instrument the sounding trees.His heart went back to its simplicityAs the stirr'd waters in the night grow pure—Sadness and silence and the dim-lit woodsWon on his love so well—and he forgotHis pride and his assumingness, and lostThe mimicry of the man, and so unlearn'dHis very character till he becameAs diffident as a girl.'Tis very strangeHow nature sometimes wins upon a child.Th' experience of the world is not on him,And poetry has not upon his brainLeft a mock thirst for solitude, nor loveWrit on his forehead the effeminate shameWhich hideth from men's eyes. He has a full,Shadowless heart, and it is always tonedMore merrily than the chastened voice of windsAnd waters—yet he often, in his mirth,Stops by the running brooks, and suddenlyLoiters, he knows not why, and at the sightOf the spread meadows and the lifted hillsFeels an unquiet pleasure, and forgetsTo listen for his fellows. He will growFond of the early star, and lie awakeGazing with many thoughts upon the moon,And lose himself in the deep chamber'd skyWith his untaught philosophies. It breedsSadness in older hearts, but not in his;And he goes merrier to his play, and shoutsLouder the joyous call—but it will sinkInto his memory like his mother's prayer,For after years to brood on.Cheerful thoughtsCame to the homesick boy as he becameWakeful to beauty in the summer's change,And he came oftener to our noisy play,Cheering us on with his delightful shoutOver the hills, and giving interestWith his keen spirit to the boyish game.We loved him for his carelessness of himself,And his perpetual mirth, and tho' he stoleSometimes away into the woods alone,And wandered unaccompanied when the nightWas beautiful, he was our idol still,And we have not forgotten him, tho' timeHas blotted many a pleasant memoryOf boyhood out, and we are wearing oldWith the unplayfulness of this grown up world.

His childhood had been wasted in the closeAnd airless city. He had never thoughtThat the blue sky was ample, or the starsMany in heaven, or the chainless windOf a medicinal freshness. He had learn'dPerilous tricks of manhood, and his handWas ready, and his confidence in himselfBold as a quarreller's. Then he came awayTo the unshelter'd hills, and brought an eyeNew as a babe's to nature, and an earAs ignorant of its music. He was sad.The broad hill sides seem'd desolate, and the woodsGloomy and dim, and the perpetual soundOf wind and waters and unquiet leavesLike the monotony of a dirge. He pinedFor the familiar things until his heartSicken'd for home!—and so he stole awayTo the most silent places, and lay downTo weep upon the mosses of the slopes,And follow'd listlessly the silver streams,Till he found out the unsunn'd shadowings,And the green openings to the sky, and grewFond of them all insensibly. He foundSweet company in the brooks, and loved to sitAnd bathe his fingers wantonly, and feelThe wind upon his forehead; and the leavesTook a beguiling whisper to his ear,And the bird-voices music, and the blastSwept like an instrument the sounding trees.His heart went back to its simplicityAs the stirr'd waters in the night grow pure—Sadness and silence and the dim-lit woodsWon on his love so well—and he forgotHis pride and his assumingness, and lostThe mimicry of the man, and so unlearn'dHis very character till he becameAs diffident as a girl.'Tis very strangeHow nature sometimes wins upon a child.Th' experience of the world is not on him,And poetry has not upon his brainLeft a mock thirst for solitude, nor loveWrit on his forehead the effeminate shameWhich hideth from men's eyes. He has a full,Shadowless heart, and it is always tonedMore merrily than the chastened voice of windsAnd waters—yet he often, in his mirth,Stops by the running brooks, and suddenlyLoiters, he knows not why, and at the sightOf the spread meadows and the lifted hillsFeels an unquiet pleasure, and forgetsTo listen for his fellows. He will growFond of the early star, and lie awakeGazing with many thoughts upon the moon,And lose himself in the deep chamber'd skyWith his untaught philosophies. It breedsSadness in older hearts, but not in his;And he goes merrier to his play, and shoutsLouder the joyous call—but it will sinkInto his memory like his mother's prayer,For after years to brood on.Cheerful thoughtsCame to the homesick boy as he becameWakeful to beauty in the summer's change,And he came oftener to our noisy play,Cheering us on with his delightful shoutOver the hills, and giving interestWith his keen spirit to the boyish game.We loved him for his carelessness of himself,And his perpetual mirth, and tho' he stoleSometimes away into the woods alone,And wandered unaccompanied when the nightWas beautiful, he was our idol still,And we have not forgotten him, tho' timeHas blotted many a pleasant memoryOf boyhood out, and we are wearing oldWith the unplayfulness of this grown up world.

The rain is playing its soft pleasant tuneFitfully on the skylight, and the shadeOf the fast flying clouds across my bookPasses with delicate change. My merry fireSings cheerfully to itself; my musing catPurrs as she wakes from her unquiet sleep,And looks into my face as if she feltLike me the gentle influence of the rain.Here have I sat since morn, reading sometimes,And sometimes listening to the faster fallOf the large drops, or rising with the stirOf an unbidden thought, have walked awhileWith the slow steps of indolence, my room,And then sat down composedly againTo my quaint book of olden poetry.It is a kind of idleness, I know;And I am said to be an idle man—And it is very true. I love to goOut in the pleasant sun, and let my eyeRest on the human faces that pass by,Each with its gay or busy interest;And then I muse upon their lot, and readMany a lesson in their changeful cast,And so grow kind of heart, as if the sightOf human beings were humanity.And I am better after it, and goMore gratefully to my rest, and feel a loveStirring my heart to every living thing,And my low prayer has more humility,And I sink lightlier to my dreams—and this,'Tis very true, is only idleness!I love to go and mingle with the youngIn the gay festal room—when every heartIs beating faster than the merry tune,And their blue eyes are restless, and their lipsParted with eager joy, and their round cheeksFlushed with the beautiful motion of the dance.'Tis sweet, in the becoming light of lamps,To watch a brow half shaded, or a curlPlaying upon a neck capriciously,Or, unobserved, to watch in its delight,The earnest countenance of a child. I loveTo look upon such things, and I can goBack to my solitude, and dream bright dreamsFor their fast coming years, and speak of themEarnestly in my prayer, till I am gladWith a benevolent joy—and this, I know,To the world's eye, is only idleness!And when the clouds pass suddenly away,And the blue sky is like a newer world,And the sweet growing things—forest and flower,Humble and beautiful alike—are allBreathing up odors to the very heaven—Or when the frost has yielded to the sunIn the rich autumn, and the filmy mistLies like a silver lining on the sky,And the clear air exhilarates, and lifeSimply, is luxury—and when the hushOf twilight, like a gentle sleep, steals on,And the birds settle to their nests, and starsSpring in the upper sky, and there is notA sound that is not low and musical—At all these pleasant seasons I go outWith my first impulse guiding me, and takeWoodpath, or stream, or sunny mountain side,And, in my recklessness of heart, stray on,Glad with the birds, and silent with the leaves,And happy with the fair and blessed world—And this, 'tis true, is only idleness!And I should love to go up to the sky,And course the heaven like stars, and float awayUpon the gliding clouds that have no stayIn their swift journey—and 'twould be a joyTo walk the chambers of the deep, and treadThe pearls of its untrodden floor, and knowThe tribes of its unfathomable depths—Dwellers beneath the pressure of a sea!And I should love to issue with the windOn a strong errand, and o'ersweep the earth,With its broad continents and islands green,Like to the passing of a presence on!—And this, 'tis true, were only idleness!

I love to go and mingle with the youngIn the gay festal room—when every heartIs beating faster than the merry tune,And their blue eyes are restless, and their lipsParted with eager joy, and their round cheeksFlushed with the beautiful motion of the dance.'Tis sweet, in the becoming light of lamps,To watch a brow half shaded, or a curlPlaying upon a neck capriciously,Or, unobserved, to watch in its delight,The earnest countenance of a child. I loveTo look upon such things, and I can goBack to my solitude, and dream bright dreamsFor their fast coming years, and speak of themEarnestly in my prayer, till I am gladWith a benevolent joy—and this, I know,To the world's eye, is only idleness!

And when the clouds pass suddenly away,And the blue sky is like a newer world,And the sweet growing things—forest and flower,Humble and beautiful alike—are allBreathing up odors to the very heaven—Or when the frost has yielded to the sunIn the rich autumn, and the filmy mistLies like a silver lining on the sky,And the clear air exhilarates, and lifeSimply, is luxury—and when the hushOf twilight, like a gentle sleep, steals on,And the birds settle to their nests, and starsSpring in the upper sky, and there is notA sound that is not low and musical—At all these pleasant seasons I go outWith my first impulse guiding me, and takeWoodpath, or stream, or sunny mountain side,And, in my recklessness of heart, stray on,Glad with the birds, and silent with the leaves,And happy with the fair and blessed world—And this, 'tis true, is only idleness!

And I should love to go up to the sky,And course the heaven like stars, and float awayUpon the gliding clouds that have no stayIn their swift journey—and 'twould be a joyTo walk the chambers of the deep, and treadThe pearls of its untrodden floor, and knowThe tribes of its unfathomable depths—Dwellers beneath the pressure of a sea!And I should love to issue with the windOn a strong errand, and o'ersweep the earth,With its broad continents and islands green,Like to the passing of a presence on!—And this, 'tis true, were only idleness!

A servant of the living God is dead!His errand hath been well and early done,And early hath he gone to his reward.He shall come no more forth, but to his sleepHath silently lain down, and so shall rest.Would ye bewail our brother? He hath goneTo Abraham's bosom. He shall no more thirst,Nor hunger, but forever in the eye,Holy and meek, of Jesus, he may look,Unchided, and untempted, and unstained.Would ye bewail our brother? He hath goneTo sit down with the prophets by the clearAnd crystal waters; he hath gone to listIsaiah's harp and David's, and to walkWith Enoch, and Elijah, and the hostOf the just men made perfect. He shall bowAt Gabriel's Hallelujah, and unfoldThe scroll of the Apocalypse with John,And talk of Christ with Mary, and go backTo the last supper, and the garden prayerWith the belov'd disciple. He shall hearThe story of the Incarnation toldBy Simeon, and the Triune mysteryBurning upon the fervent lips of Paul.He shall have wings of glory, and shall soarTo the remoter firmaments, and readThe order and the harmony of stars;And, in the might of knowledge, he shall bowIn the deep pauses of Archangel harps,And humble as the Seraphim, shall cry—Who by his searching, finds thee out, Oh God!There shall he meet his children who have goneBefore him, and as other years roll on,And his loved flock go up to him, his handAgain shall lead them gently to the Lamb,And bring them to the living waters there.Is it so good to die! and shall we mournThat he is taken early to his rest?Tell me! Oh mourner for the man of God!Shall we bewail our brother that he died?

Would ye bewail our brother? He hath goneTo Abraham's bosom. He shall no more thirst,Nor hunger, but forever in the eye,Holy and meek, of Jesus, he may look,Unchided, and untempted, and unstained.Would ye bewail our brother? He hath goneTo sit down with the prophets by the clearAnd crystal waters; he hath gone to listIsaiah's harp and David's, and to walkWith Enoch, and Elijah, and the hostOf the just men made perfect. He shall bowAt Gabriel's Hallelujah, and unfoldThe scroll of the Apocalypse with John,And talk of Christ with Mary, and go backTo the last supper, and the garden prayerWith the belov'd disciple. He shall hearThe story of the Incarnation toldBy Simeon, and the Triune mysteryBurning upon the fervent lips of Paul.He shall have wings of glory, and shall soarTo the remoter firmaments, and readThe order and the harmony of stars;And, in the might of knowledge, he shall bowIn the deep pauses of Archangel harps,And humble as the Seraphim, shall cry—Who by his searching, finds thee out, Oh God!

There shall he meet his children who have goneBefore him, and as other years roll on,And his loved flock go up to him, his handAgain shall lead them gently to the Lamb,And bring them to the living waters there.

Is it so good to die! and shall we mournThat he is taken early to his rest?Tell me! Oh mourner for the man of God!Shall we bewail our brother that he died?

'Twas a rich night in June. The air was allFragrance and balm, and the wet leaves were stirredBy the soft fingers of the southern wind,And caught the light capriciously, like wingsHaunting the greenwood with a silvery sheen.The stars might not be numbered, and the moonExceeding beautiful, went up in heaven,And took her place in silence, and a hush,Like the deep Sabbath of the night, came downAnd rested upon nature. I was outWith three sweet sisters wandering, and my thoughtsTook color of the moonlight, and of them,And I was calm and happy. Their deep tones,Low in the stillness, and by that soft airMelted to reediness, bore out, like song,The language of high feelings, and I feltHow excellent is woman when she givesTo the fine pulses of her spirit way.One was a noble being, with a browAmple and pure, and on it her black hairWas parted, like a raven's wing on snow.Her tone was low and sweet, and in her smileYou read intense affections. Her moist eyeHad a most rare benignity; her mouth,Bland and unshadowed sweetness; and her faceWas full of that mild dignity that givesA holiness to woman. She was oneWhose virtues blossom daily, and pour outA fragrance upon all who in her pathHave a blest fellowship. I longed to beHer brother, that her hand might lie uponMy forehead, and her gentle voice allayThe fever that is at my heart sometimes.There was a second sister who might witchAn angel from his hymn. I cannot tellThe secret of her beauty. It is moreThan her slight penciled lip, and her arch eyeLaughing beneath its lashes, as if lifeWere nothing but a merry mask; 'tis moreThan motion, though she moveth like a fay;Or music, though her voice is like a reedBlown by a low south wind; or cunning grace,Though all she does is beautiful; or thought,Or fancy, or a delicate sense, though mindIs her best gift, and poetry her world,And she will see strange beauty in a flowerAs by a subtle vision. I care notTo know how she bewitches; 'tis enoughFor me that I can listen to her voiceAnd dream rare dreams of music, or converseUpon unwrit philosophy, till IAm wildered beneath thoughts I cannot boundAnd the red lip that breathes them.On my armLeaned an unshadowed girl, who scarcely yetHad numbered fourteen summers. I know notHow I shall draw her picture—the young heartHas such a restlessness of change, and eachOf its wild moods so lovely! I can seeHer figure in its rounded beauty now,With her half-flying step, her clustering hairBathing a neck like Hebe's, and her faceBy a glad heart made radiant. She was fullOf the romance of girlhood. The fair worldWas like an unmarred Eden to her eye,And every sound was music, and the tintOf every cloud a silent poetry.Light to thy path, bright creature! I would charmThy being if I could, that it should beEver as now thou dreamest, and flow onThus innocent and beautiful to heaven!We walked beneath the full and mellow moonTill the late stars had risen. It was notIn silence, though we did not seem to breakThe hush with our low voices; but our thoughtsStirred deeply at their sources; and when nightDivided us, I slumbered with a peaceFloating about my heart, which only comesFrom high communion. I shall never seeThat silver moon again without a crowdOf gentle memories, and a silent prayer,That when the night of life shall overstealYour sky, ye lovely sisters! there may beA light as beautiful to lead you on.

There was a second sister who might witchAn angel from his hymn. I cannot tellThe secret of her beauty. It is moreThan her slight penciled lip, and her arch eyeLaughing beneath its lashes, as if lifeWere nothing but a merry mask; 'tis moreThan motion, though she moveth like a fay;Or music, though her voice is like a reedBlown by a low south wind; or cunning grace,Though all she does is beautiful; or thought,Or fancy, or a delicate sense, though mindIs her best gift, and poetry her world,And she will see strange beauty in a flowerAs by a subtle vision. I care notTo know how she bewitches; 'tis enoughFor me that I can listen to her voiceAnd dream rare dreams of music, or converseUpon unwrit philosophy, till IAm wildered beneath thoughts I cannot boundAnd the red lip that breathes them.On my armLeaned an unshadowed girl, who scarcely yetHad numbered fourteen summers. I know notHow I shall draw her picture—the young heartHas such a restlessness of change, and eachOf its wild moods so lovely! I can seeHer figure in its rounded beauty now,With her half-flying step, her clustering hairBathing a neck like Hebe's, and her faceBy a glad heart made radiant. She was fullOf the romance of girlhood. The fair worldWas like an unmarred Eden to her eye,And every sound was music, and the tintOf every cloud a silent poetry.Light to thy path, bright creature! I would charmThy being if I could, that it should beEver as now thou dreamest, and flow onThus innocent and beautiful to heaven!We walked beneath the full and mellow moonTill the late stars had risen. It was notIn silence, though we did not seem to breakThe hush with our low voices; but our thoughtsStirred deeply at their sources; and when nightDivided us, I slumbered with a peaceFloating about my heart, which only comesFrom high communion. I shall never seeThat silver moon again without a crowdOf gentle memories, and a silent prayer,That when the night of life shall overstealYour sky, ye lovely sisters! there may beA light as beautiful to lead you on.

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