BAYARD TAYLOR.

(‡ decoration)BAYARD TAYLOR.RENOWNED POET, TRAVELER AND JOURNALIST.THE subject of this sketch♦began life as a farmer boy. He was born in Chester county, Pennsylvania, January11th, 1825. After a few years study in country schools he was apprenticed to a West Chester printer, with whom he remained until he learned that trade. In his boyhood he wrote verses, and before he was twenty years of age published his first book entitled, “Ximena and other Poems.” Through this book he formed the acquaintance ofDr.Griswold, editor of “Graham’s Magazine,” Philadelphia, who gave him letters of recommendation to New York, where he received encouragement from N. P. Willis and Horace Greeley, the latter agreeing to publish his letters from abroad in the event of his making a journey, contemplated, to the old world.♦“begun” replaced with “began”Thus encouraged he set out to make a tour of Europe, having less than one hundred and fifty dollars to defray expenses. He was absent two years, during which time he traveled over Europe on foot, supporting himself entirely by stopping now and then in Germany to work at the printer’s trade and by his literary correspondence, for which he received only $500.00. He was fully repaid for this hardship, however, by the proceeds of his book (which he published on his return in 1846), “Views Afoot, or Europe as Seen with Knapsack and Staff.” This was regarded as one of the most delightful books of travel that had appeared up to that time, and six editions of it were sold within one year. It is still one of the most popular of the series of eleven books of travel written during the course of his life. In 1848 he further immortalized this journey and added to his fame by publishing “Rhymes of Travel,” a volume of verse.Taylor was an insatiable nomad, visiting in his travels the remotest regions. “His wandering feet pressed the soil of all the continents, and his observing eyes saw the strange and beautiful things of the world from the equator to the frozen North and South;” and wherever he went the world saw through his eyes and heard through his ears the things he saw and heard. Europe, India, Japan, Central Africa, the Soudan, Egypt, Palestine, Iceland and California contributed their quota to the ready pen of this incessant traveler and rapid worker. He was a man of buoyant nature with an eager appetite for new experiences, a remarkable memory, and a talent for learning languages. His poetry is full of glow and picturesqueness, in style suggestive of both Tennyson and Shelly. His famous “Bedouin Song” is strongly imitative of Shelly’s “Lines to an Indian Air.” He was an admirableparodist and translator. His translation of “Faust” so closely adheres to Goethe’s original metre that it is considered one of the proudest accomplishments in American letters. Taylor is generally considered first among our poets succeeding the generation of Poe, Longfellow and Lowell.The novels of the traveler, of which he wrote only four, the scenes being laid in Pennsylvania and New York, possess the same eloquent profusion manifest in his verse, and give the reader the impression of having been written with the ease and dash which characterize his stories of travel. In fact, his busy life was too much hurried to allow the spending of much time on anything. His literary life occupied only thirty-four years and in that time he wrote thirty-seven volumes. He entered almost every department of literature and always displayed high literary ability. Besides his volumes of travel and the four novels referred to he was a constant newspaper correspondent, and then came the greatest labor of all, poetry. This he regarded as his realm, and it was his hope of fame. Voluminous as were the works of travel and fiction and herculean the efforts necessary to do the prose writing he turned off, it was, after all, but the antechamber to his real labors. It was to poetry that he devoted most thought and most time.In 1877 Bayard Taylor was appointed minister to Berlin by President Hayes, and died December19th, 1878, while serving his country in that capacity.THE BISON-TRACK.STRIKE the tent! the sun has risen; not a cloud has ribb’d the dawn,And the frosted prairie brightens to the westward, far and wan;Prime afresh the trusty rifle—sharpen well the hunting-spear—For the frozen sod is trembling, and a noise of hoofs I hear!Fiercely stamp the tether’d horses, as they snuff the morning’s fire,And their flashing heads are tossing, with a neigh of keen desire;Strike the tent—the saddles wait us! let the bridle-reins be slack,For the prairie’s distant thunder has betray’d the bison’s track!See! a dusky line approaches; hark! the onward-surging roar,Like the din of wintry breakers on a sounding wall of shore!Dust and sand behind them whirling, snort the foremost of the van,And the stubborn horns are striking, through the crowded caravan.Now the storm is down upon us—let the madden’d horses go!We shall ride the living whirlwind, though a hundred leagues it blow!Though the surgy manes should thicken, and the red eyes’ angry glareLighten round us as we gallop through the sand and rushing air!Myriad hoofs will scar the prairie, in our wild, resistless race,And a sound, like mighty waters, thunder down the desert space:Yet the rein may not be tighten’d, nor the rider’s eye look back—Death to him whose speed should slacken on the madden’d bison’s track!Now the trampling herds are threaded, and the chase is close and warmFor the giant bull that gallops in the edges of the storm:Hurl your lassoes swift and fearless—swing your rifles as we run!Ha! the dust is red behind him; shout, my brothers, he is won!Look not on him as he staggers—’tis the last shot he will need;More shall fall, among his fellows, ere we run the bold stampede—Ere we stem the swarthy breakers—while the wolves, a hungry pack,Howl around each grim-eyed carcass, on the bloody bison-track!THE SONG OF THE CAMP.GIVE us a song!” the soldiers cried,The outer trenches guarding,When the heated guns of the camps alliedGrew weary of bombarding.The dark Redan, in silent scoff,Lay, grim and threatening, under;And the tawny mound of the MalakoffNo longer belched its thunder.There was a pause. A guardsman said,“We storm the forts to-morrow,Sing while we may, another dayWill bring enough of sorrow.”There lay along the battery’s side,Below the smoking cannon,Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde,And from the banks of Shannon.They sang of love, and not of fame;Forgot was Britain’s glory;Each heart recalled a different nameBut all sang “Annie Lawrie.”Voice after voice caught up the song,Until its tender passionRose like an anthem, rich and strong,—Their battle-eve confession.Dear girl, her name he dared not speak,But, as the song grew louder,Something on the soldier’s cheekWashed off the stains of powder.Beyond the darkening ocean burnedThe bloody sunset’s embers,While the Crimean valleys learnedHow English love remembers.And once again a fire of hellRained on the Russian quarters,With scream of shot, and burst of shell,And bellowing of the mortars!And Irish Nora’s eyes are dimFor a singer, dumb and gory;And English Mary mourns for himWho sang of “Annie Lawrie.”Sleep, soldier! still in honored restYour truth and valor wearing;The bravest are the tenderest,—The loving are the daring.BEDOUIN SONG.FROM the Desert I come to theeOn a stallion shod with fire;And the winds are left behindIn the speed of my desire.Under thy window I stand,And the midnight hears my cry:I love thee, I love but thee,With a love that shall not dieTill the sun grows cold,And the stars are old,And the leaves of the JudgmentBook unfold!Look from thy window and seeMy passion and my pain;I lie on the sands below,And I faint in thy disdain.Let the night-winds touch thy browWith the heat of my burning sigh,And melt thee to hear the vowOf a love that shall not dieTill the sun grows cold,And the stars are old,And the leaves of the JudgmentBook unfold!My steps are nightly driven,By the fever in my breast,To hear from thy lattice breathedThe word that shall give me rest.Open the door of thy heart,And open thy chamber door,And my kisses shall teach thy lipsThe love that shall fade no moreTill the sun grows cold,And the stars are old,And the leaves of the JudgmentBook unfold!THE ARAB TO THE PALM.NEXT to thee, O fair gazelle,O Beddowee girl, beloved so well;Next to the fearless Nedjidee,Whose fleetness shall bear me again to thee;Next to ye both I love the Palm,With his leaves of beauty, his fruit of balm;Next to ye both I love the TreeWhose fluttering shadow wraps us threeWith love, and silence, and mystery!Our tribe is many, our poets vieWith any under the Arab sky;Yet none can sing of the Palm but I.The marble minarets that begemCairo’s citadel-diademAre not so light as his slender stem.He lifts his leaves in the sunbeam’s glanceAs the Almehs lift their arms in dance—A slumberous motion, a passionate sign,That works in the cells of the blood like wine.Full of passion and sorrow is he,Dreaming where the beloved may be.And when the warm south-winds arise,He breathes his longing in fervid sighs—Quickening odors, kisses of balm,That drop in the lap of his chosen palm.The sun may flame and the sands may stir,But the breath of his passion reaches her.O Tree of Love, by that love of thine,Teach me how I shall soften mine!Give me the secret of the sun,Whereby the wooed is ever won!If I were a King, O stately Tree,A likeness, glorious as might be,In the court of my palace I’d build for thee!With a shaft of silver, burnished bright,And leaves of beryl and malachite.With spikes of golden bloom a-blaze,And fruits of topaz and chrysoprase:And there the poets, in thy praise,Should night and morning frame new lays—New measures sung to tunes divine;But none, O Palm, should equal mine!LIFE ON THE NILE.——“The life thou seek’stThou’lt find beside the eternal Nile.”—Moore’s Alciphron.THE Nile is the Paradise of travel. I thought I had already fathomed all the depths of enjoyment which the traveler’s restless life could reach—enjoyment more varied and exciting, but far less serene and enduring, than that of a quiet home; but here I have reached a fountain too pure and powerful to be exhausted. I never before experienced such a thorough deliverance from all the petty annoyances of travel in other lands, such perfect contentment of spirit, such entire abandonment to the best influences of nature. Every day opens with ajubilate, and closes with a thanksgiving. If such a balm and blessing as this life has been to me, thus far, can be felt twice in one’s existence, there must be another Nile somewhere in the world.Other travelers undoubtedly make other experiences and take away other impressions. I can even conceive circumstances which would almost destroy the pleasure of the journey. The same exquisitely sensitive temperament, which in our case has not been disturbed by a single untoward incident, might easily be kept in a state of constant derangement by an unsympathetic companion, a cheating dragoman, or a fractious crew. There are also many triflingdesagrémens, inseparable from life in Egypt, which some would consider a source of annoyance; but, as we find fewer than we were prepared to meet, we are not troubled thereby.Our manner of life is simple, and might even be called monotonous; but we have never found the greatest variety of landscape and incident so thoroughly enjoyable. The scenery of the Nile, thus far, scarcely changes from day to day, in its forms and colors, but only in their disposition with regard to each other. The shores are either palm-groves, fields of cane and dourra, young wheat, or patches of bare sand blown out from the desert. The villages are all the same agglomerations of mud walls, the tombs of the Moslem saints are the same white ovens, and every individual camel and buffalo resembles its neighbor in picturesque ugliness. The Arabian and Libyan Mountains, now sweeping so far into the foregroundthat their yellow cliffs overhang the Nile, now receding into the violet haze of the horizon, exhibit little difference of height, hue, or geological formation. Every new scene is the turn of a kaleidoscope, in which the same objects are grouped in other relations, yet always characterized by the most perfect harmony. These slight yet ever-renewing changes are to us a source of endless delight. Either from the pure atmosphere, the healthy life we lead, or the accordant tone of our spirits, we find ourselves unusually sensitive to all the slightest touches, the most minute rays, of that grace and harmony which bathes every landscape in cloudless sunshine. The various groupings of the palms, the shifting of the blue evening shadows on the rose-hued mountain-walls, the green of the wheat and sugar-cane, the windings of the great river, the alternations of wind and calm,—each of these is enough to content us, and to give every day a different charm from that which went before. We meet contrary winds, calms, and sand-banks, without losing our patience; and even our excitement in the swiftness and grace with which our vessel scuds before the north wind, is mingled with a regret that our journey is drawing so much the more swiftly to its close. A portion of the old Egyptian repose seems to be infused into our natures; and lately, when I saw my face in a mirror, I thought I perceived in its features something of the patience and resignation of the sphinx.My friend, the Howadji, in whose “Nile Notes” the Egyptian atmosphere is so perfectly reproduced, says that “conscience falls asleep on the Nile.” If by this he means that artificial quality which bigots and sectarians call conscience, I quite agree with him, and do not blame the Nile for its soporific powers. But that simple faculty of the soul, native to all men, which acts best when it acts unconsciously, and leads our passions and desires into right paths without seeming to lead them, is vastly strengthened by this quiet and healthy life. There is a cathedral-like solemnity in the air of Egypt; one feels the presence of the altar, and is a better man without his will. To those rendered misanthropic by disappointed ambition, mistrustful by betrayed confidence, despairing by unassuageable sorrow, let me repeat the motto which heads this chapter.(‡ decoration)

(‡ decoration)

RENOWNED POET, TRAVELER AND JOURNALIST.

THE subject of this sketch♦began life as a farmer boy. He was born in Chester county, Pennsylvania, January11th, 1825. After a few years study in country schools he was apprenticed to a West Chester printer, with whom he remained until he learned that trade. In his boyhood he wrote verses, and before he was twenty years of age published his first book entitled, “Ximena and other Poems.” Through this book he formed the acquaintance ofDr.Griswold, editor of “Graham’s Magazine,” Philadelphia, who gave him letters of recommendation to New York, where he received encouragement from N. P. Willis and Horace Greeley, the latter agreeing to publish his letters from abroad in the event of his making a journey, contemplated, to the old world.

♦“begun” replaced with “began”

Thus encouraged he set out to make a tour of Europe, having less than one hundred and fifty dollars to defray expenses. He was absent two years, during which time he traveled over Europe on foot, supporting himself entirely by stopping now and then in Germany to work at the printer’s trade and by his literary correspondence, for which he received only $500.00. He was fully repaid for this hardship, however, by the proceeds of his book (which he published on his return in 1846), “Views Afoot, or Europe as Seen with Knapsack and Staff.” This was regarded as one of the most delightful books of travel that had appeared up to that time, and six editions of it were sold within one year. It is still one of the most popular of the series of eleven books of travel written during the course of his life. In 1848 he further immortalized this journey and added to his fame by publishing “Rhymes of Travel,” a volume of verse.

Taylor was an insatiable nomad, visiting in his travels the remotest regions. “His wandering feet pressed the soil of all the continents, and his observing eyes saw the strange and beautiful things of the world from the equator to the frozen North and South;” and wherever he went the world saw through his eyes and heard through his ears the things he saw and heard. Europe, India, Japan, Central Africa, the Soudan, Egypt, Palestine, Iceland and California contributed their quota to the ready pen of this incessant traveler and rapid worker. He was a man of buoyant nature with an eager appetite for new experiences, a remarkable memory, and a talent for learning languages. His poetry is full of glow and picturesqueness, in style suggestive of both Tennyson and Shelly. His famous “Bedouin Song” is strongly imitative of Shelly’s “Lines to an Indian Air.” He was an admirableparodist and translator. His translation of “Faust” so closely adheres to Goethe’s original metre that it is considered one of the proudest accomplishments in American letters. Taylor is generally considered first among our poets succeeding the generation of Poe, Longfellow and Lowell.

The novels of the traveler, of which he wrote only four, the scenes being laid in Pennsylvania and New York, possess the same eloquent profusion manifest in his verse, and give the reader the impression of having been written with the ease and dash which characterize his stories of travel. In fact, his busy life was too much hurried to allow the spending of much time on anything. His literary life occupied only thirty-four years and in that time he wrote thirty-seven volumes. He entered almost every department of literature and always displayed high literary ability. Besides his volumes of travel and the four novels referred to he was a constant newspaper correspondent, and then came the greatest labor of all, poetry. This he regarded as his realm, and it was his hope of fame. Voluminous as were the works of travel and fiction and herculean the efforts necessary to do the prose writing he turned off, it was, after all, but the antechamber to his real labors. It was to poetry that he devoted most thought and most time.

In 1877 Bayard Taylor was appointed minister to Berlin by President Hayes, and died December19th, 1878, while serving his country in that capacity.

THE BISON-TRACK.

STRIKE the tent! the sun has risen; not a cloud has ribb’d the dawn,And the frosted prairie brightens to the westward, far and wan;Prime afresh the trusty rifle—sharpen well the hunting-spear—For the frozen sod is trembling, and a noise of hoofs I hear!Fiercely stamp the tether’d horses, as they snuff the morning’s fire,And their flashing heads are tossing, with a neigh of keen desire;Strike the tent—the saddles wait us! let the bridle-reins be slack,For the prairie’s distant thunder has betray’d the bison’s track!See! a dusky line approaches; hark! the onward-surging roar,Like the din of wintry breakers on a sounding wall of shore!Dust and sand behind them whirling, snort the foremost of the van,And the stubborn horns are striking, through the crowded caravan.Now the storm is down upon us—let the madden’d horses go!We shall ride the living whirlwind, though a hundred leagues it blow!Though the surgy manes should thicken, and the red eyes’ angry glareLighten round us as we gallop through the sand and rushing air!Myriad hoofs will scar the prairie, in our wild, resistless race,And a sound, like mighty waters, thunder down the desert space:Yet the rein may not be tighten’d, nor the rider’s eye look back—Death to him whose speed should slacken on the madden’d bison’s track!Now the trampling herds are threaded, and the chase is close and warmFor the giant bull that gallops in the edges of the storm:Hurl your lassoes swift and fearless—swing your rifles as we run!Ha! the dust is red behind him; shout, my brothers, he is won!Look not on him as he staggers—’tis the last shot he will need;More shall fall, among his fellows, ere we run the bold stampede—Ere we stem the swarthy breakers—while the wolves, a hungry pack,Howl around each grim-eyed carcass, on the bloody bison-track!

TRIKE the tent! the sun has risen; not a cloud has ribb’d the dawn,

And the frosted prairie brightens to the westward, far and wan;

Prime afresh the trusty rifle—sharpen well the hunting-spear—

For the frozen sod is trembling, and a noise of hoofs I hear!

Fiercely stamp the tether’d horses, as they snuff the morning’s fire,

And their flashing heads are tossing, with a neigh of keen desire;

Strike the tent—the saddles wait us! let the bridle-reins be slack,

For the prairie’s distant thunder has betray’d the bison’s track!

See! a dusky line approaches; hark! the onward-surging roar,

Like the din of wintry breakers on a sounding wall of shore!

Dust and sand behind them whirling, snort the foremost of the van,

And the stubborn horns are striking, through the crowded caravan.

Now the storm is down upon us—let the madden’d horses go!

We shall ride the living whirlwind, though a hundred leagues it blow!

Though the surgy manes should thicken, and the red eyes’ angry glare

Lighten round us as we gallop through the sand and rushing air!

Myriad hoofs will scar the prairie, in our wild, resistless race,

And a sound, like mighty waters, thunder down the desert space:

Yet the rein may not be tighten’d, nor the rider’s eye look back—

Death to him whose speed should slacken on the madden’d bison’s track!

Now the trampling herds are threaded, and the chase is close and warm

For the giant bull that gallops in the edges of the storm:

Hurl your lassoes swift and fearless—swing your rifles as we run!

Ha! the dust is red behind him; shout, my brothers, he is won!

Look not on him as he staggers—’tis the last shot he will need;

More shall fall, among his fellows, ere we run the bold stampede—

Ere we stem the swarthy breakers—while the wolves, a hungry pack,

Howl around each grim-eyed carcass, on the bloody bison-track!

THE SONG OF THE CAMP.

GIVE us a song!” the soldiers cried,The outer trenches guarding,When the heated guns of the camps alliedGrew weary of bombarding.The dark Redan, in silent scoff,Lay, grim and threatening, under;And the tawny mound of the MalakoffNo longer belched its thunder.There was a pause. A guardsman said,“We storm the forts to-morrow,Sing while we may, another dayWill bring enough of sorrow.”There lay along the battery’s side,Below the smoking cannon,Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde,And from the banks of Shannon.They sang of love, and not of fame;Forgot was Britain’s glory;Each heart recalled a different nameBut all sang “Annie Lawrie.”Voice after voice caught up the song,Until its tender passionRose like an anthem, rich and strong,—Their battle-eve confession.Dear girl, her name he dared not speak,But, as the song grew louder,Something on the soldier’s cheekWashed off the stains of powder.Beyond the darkening ocean burnedThe bloody sunset’s embers,While the Crimean valleys learnedHow English love remembers.And once again a fire of hellRained on the Russian quarters,With scream of shot, and burst of shell,And bellowing of the mortars!And Irish Nora’s eyes are dimFor a singer, dumb and gory;And English Mary mourns for himWho sang of “Annie Lawrie.”Sleep, soldier! still in honored restYour truth and valor wearing;The bravest are the tenderest,—The loving are the daring.

IVE us a song!” the soldiers cried,

The outer trenches guarding,

When the heated guns of the camps allied

Grew weary of bombarding.

The dark Redan, in silent scoff,

Lay, grim and threatening, under;

And the tawny mound of the Malakoff

No longer belched its thunder.

There was a pause. A guardsman said,

“We storm the forts to-morrow,

Sing while we may, another day

Will bring enough of sorrow.”

There lay along the battery’s side,

Below the smoking cannon,

Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde,

And from the banks of Shannon.

They sang of love, and not of fame;

Forgot was Britain’s glory;

Each heart recalled a different name

But all sang “Annie Lawrie.”

Voice after voice caught up the song,

Until its tender passion

Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,—

Their battle-eve confession.

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak,

But, as the song grew louder,

Something on the soldier’s cheek

Washed off the stains of powder.

Beyond the darkening ocean burned

The bloody sunset’s embers,

While the Crimean valleys learned

How English love remembers.

And once again a fire of hell

Rained on the Russian quarters,

With scream of shot, and burst of shell,

And bellowing of the mortars!

And Irish Nora’s eyes are dim

For a singer, dumb and gory;

And English Mary mourns for him

Who sang of “Annie Lawrie.”

Sleep, soldier! still in honored rest

Your truth and valor wearing;

The bravest are the tenderest,—

The loving are the daring.

BEDOUIN SONG.

FROM the Desert I come to theeOn a stallion shod with fire;And the winds are left behindIn the speed of my desire.Under thy window I stand,And the midnight hears my cry:I love thee, I love but thee,With a love that shall not dieTill the sun grows cold,And the stars are old,And the leaves of the JudgmentBook unfold!Look from thy window and seeMy passion and my pain;I lie on the sands below,And I faint in thy disdain.Let the night-winds touch thy browWith the heat of my burning sigh,And melt thee to hear the vowOf a love that shall not dieTill the sun grows cold,And the stars are old,And the leaves of the JudgmentBook unfold!My steps are nightly driven,By the fever in my breast,To hear from thy lattice breathedThe word that shall give me rest.Open the door of thy heart,And open thy chamber door,And my kisses shall teach thy lipsThe love that shall fade no moreTill the sun grows cold,And the stars are old,And the leaves of the JudgmentBook unfold!

ROM the Desert I come to thee

On a stallion shod with fire;

And the winds are left behind

In the speed of my desire.

Under thy window I stand,

And the midnight hears my cry:

I love thee, I love but thee,

With a love that shall not die

Till the sun grows cold,

And the stars are old,

And the leaves of the Judgment

Book unfold!

Look from thy window and see

My passion and my pain;

I lie on the sands below,

And I faint in thy disdain.

Let the night-winds touch thy brow

With the heat of my burning sigh,

And melt thee to hear the vow

Of a love that shall not die

Till the sun grows cold,

And the stars are old,

And the leaves of the Judgment

Book unfold!

My steps are nightly driven,

By the fever in my breast,

To hear from thy lattice breathed

The word that shall give me rest.

Open the door of thy heart,

And open thy chamber door,

And my kisses shall teach thy lips

The love that shall fade no more

Till the sun grows cold,

And the stars are old,

And the leaves of the Judgment

Book unfold!

THE ARAB TO THE PALM.

NEXT to thee, O fair gazelle,O Beddowee girl, beloved so well;Next to the fearless Nedjidee,Whose fleetness shall bear me again to thee;Next to ye both I love the Palm,With his leaves of beauty, his fruit of balm;Next to ye both I love the TreeWhose fluttering shadow wraps us threeWith love, and silence, and mystery!Our tribe is many, our poets vieWith any under the Arab sky;Yet none can sing of the Palm but I.The marble minarets that begemCairo’s citadel-diademAre not so light as his slender stem.He lifts his leaves in the sunbeam’s glanceAs the Almehs lift their arms in dance—A slumberous motion, a passionate sign,That works in the cells of the blood like wine.Full of passion and sorrow is he,Dreaming where the beloved may be.And when the warm south-winds arise,He breathes his longing in fervid sighs—Quickening odors, kisses of balm,That drop in the lap of his chosen palm.The sun may flame and the sands may stir,But the breath of his passion reaches her.O Tree of Love, by that love of thine,Teach me how I shall soften mine!Give me the secret of the sun,Whereby the wooed is ever won!If I were a King, O stately Tree,A likeness, glorious as might be,In the court of my palace I’d build for thee!With a shaft of silver, burnished bright,And leaves of beryl and malachite.With spikes of golden bloom a-blaze,And fruits of topaz and chrysoprase:And there the poets, in thy praise,Should night and morning frame new lays—New measures sung to tunes divine;But none, O Palm, should equal mine!

EXT to thee, O fair gazelle,

O Beddowee girl, beloved so well;

Next to the fearless Nedjidee,

Whose fleetness shall bear me again to thee;

Next to ye both I love the Palm,

With his leaves of beauty, his fruit of balm;

Next to ye both I love the Tree

Whose fluttering shadow wraps us three

With love, and silence, and mystery!

Our tribe is many, our poets vie

With any under the Arab sky;

Yet none can sing of the Palm but I.

The marble minarets that begem

Cairo’s citadel-diadem

Are not so light as his slender stem.

He lifts his leaves in the sunbeam’s glance

As the Almehs lift their arms in dance—

A slumberous motion, a passionate sign,

That works in the cells of the blood like wine.

Full of passion and sorrow is he,

Dreaming where the beloved may be.

And when the warm south-winds arise,

He breathes his longing in fervid sighs—

Quickening odors, kisses of balm,

That drop in the lap of his chosen palm.

The sun may flame and the sands may stir,

But the breath of his passion reaches her.

O Tree of Love, by that love of thine,

Teach me how I shall soften mine!

Give me the secret of the sun,

Whereby the wooed is ever won!

If I were a King, O stately Tree,

A likeness, glorious as might be,

In the court of my palace I’d build for thee!

With a shaft of silver, burnished bright,

And leaves of beryl and malachite.

With spikes of golden bloom a-blaze,

And fruits of topaz and chrysoprase:

And there the poets, in thy praise,

Should night and morning frame new lays—

New measures sung to tunes divine;

But none, O Palm, should equal mine!

LIFE ON THE NILE.

——“The life thou seek’stThou’lt find beside the eternal Nile.”—Moore’s Alciphron.THE Nile is the Paradise of travel. I thought I had already fathomed all the depths of enjoyment which the traveler’s restless life could reach—enjoyment more varied and exciting, but far less serene and enduring, than that of a quiet home; but here I have reached a fountain too pure and powerful to be exhausted. I never before experienced such a thorough deliverance from all the petty annoyances of travel in other lands, such perfect contentment of spirit, such entire abandonment to the best influences of nature. Every day opens with ajubilate, and closes with a thanksgiving. If such a balm and blessing as this life has been to me, thus far, can be felt twice in one’s existence, there must be another Nile somewhere in the world.Other travelers undoubtedly make other experiences and take away other impressions. I can even conceive circumstances which would almost destroy the pleasure of the journey. The same exquisitely sensitive temperament, which in our case has not been disturbed by a single untoward incident, might easily be kept in a state of constant derangement by an unsympathetic companion, a cheating dragoman, or a fractious crew. There are also many triflingdesagrémens, inseparable from life in Egypt, which some would consider a source of annoyance; but, as we find fewer than we were prepared to meet, we are not troubled thereby.Our manner of life is simple, and might even be called monotonous; but we have never found the greatest variety of landscape and incident so thoroughly enjoyable. The scenery of the Nile, thus far, scarcely changes from day to day, in its forms and colors, but only in their disposition with regard to each other. The shores are either palm-groves, fields of cane and dourra, young wheat, or patches of bare sand blown out from the desert. The villages are all the same agglomerations of mud walls, the tombs of the Moslem saints are the same white ovens, and every individual camel and buffalo resembles its neighbor in picturesque ugliness. The Arabian and Libyan Mountains, now sweeping so far into the foregroundthat their yellow cliffs overhang the Nile, now receding into the violet haze of the horizon, exhibit little difference of height, hue, or geological formation. Every new scene is the turn of a kaleidoscope, in which the same objects are grouped in other relations, yet always characterized by the most perfect harmony. These slight yet ever-renewing changes are to us a source of endless delight. Either from the pure atmosphere, the healthy life we lead, or the accordant tone of our spirits, we find ourselves unusually sensitive to all the slightest touches, the most minute rays, of that grace and harmony which bathes every landscape in cloudless sunshine. The various groupings of the palms, the shifting of the blue evening shadows on the rose-hued mountain-walls, the green of the wheat and sugar-cane, the windings of the great river, the alternations of wind and calm,—each of these is enough to content us, and to give every day a different charm from that which went before. We meet contrary winds, calms, and sand-banks, without losing our patience; and even our excitement in the swiftness and grace with which our vessel scuds before the north wind, is mingled with a regret that our journey is drawing so much the more swiftly to its close. A portion of the old Egyptian repose seems to be infused into our natures; and lately, when I saw my face in a mirror, I thought I perceived in its features something of the patience and resignation of the sphinx.My friend, the Howadji, in whose “Nile Notes” the Egyptian atmosphere is so perfectly reproduced, says that “conscience falls asleep on the Nile.” If by this he means that artificial quality which bigots and sectarians call conscience, I quite agree with him, and do not blame the Nile for its soporific powers. But that simple faculty of the soul, native to all men, which acts best when it acts unconsciously, and leads our passions and desires into right paths without seeming to lead them, is vastly strengthened by this quiet and healthy life. There is a cathedral-like solemnity in the air of Egypt; one feels the presence of the altar, and is a better man without his will. To those rendered misanthropic by disappointed ambition, mistrustful by betrayed confidence, despairing by unassuageable sorrow, let me repeat the motto which heads this chapter.

——“The life thou seek’stThou’lt find beside the eternal Nile.”—Moore’s Alciphron.

——“The life thou seek’st

Thou’lt find beside the eternal Nile.”

—Moore’s Alciphron.

THE Nile is the Paradise of travel. I thought I had already fathomed all the depths of enjoyment which the traveler’s restless life could reach—enjoyment more varied and exciting, but far less serene and enduring, than that of a quiet home; but here I have reached a fountain too pure and powerful to be exhausted. I never before experienced such a thorough deliverance from all the petty annoyances of travel in other lands, such perfect contentment of spirit, such entire abandonment to the best influences of nature. Every day opens with ajubilate, and closes with a thanksgiving. If such a balm and blessing as this life has been to me, thus far, can be felt twice in one’s existence, there must be another Nile somewhere in the world.

Other travelers undoubtedly make other experiences and take away other impressions. I can even conceive circumstances which would almost destroy the pleasure of the journey. The same exquisitely sensitive temperament, which in our case has not been disturbed by a single untoward incident, might easily be kept in a state of constant derangement by an unsympathetic companion, a cheating dragoman, or a fractious crew. There are also many triflingdesagrémens, inseparable from life in Egypt, which some would consider a source of annoyance; but, as we find fewer than we were prepared to meet, we are not troubled thereby.

Our manner of life is simple, and might even be called monotonous; but we have never found the greatest variety of landscape and incident so thoroughly enjoyable. The scenery of the Nile, thus far, scarcely changes from day to day, in its forms and colors, but only in their disposition with regard to each other. The shores are either palm-groves, fields of cane and dourra, young wheat, or patches of bare sand blown out from the desert. The villages are all the same agglomerations of mud walls, the tombs of the Moslem saints are the same white ovens, and every individual camel and buffalo resembles its neighbor in picturesque ugliness. The Arabian and Libyan Mountains, now sweeping so far into the foregroundthat their yellow cliffs overhang the Nile, now receding into the violet haze of the horizon, exhibit little difference of height, hue, or geological formation. Every new scene is the turn of a kaleidoscope, in which the same objects are grouped in other relations, yet always characterized by the most perfect harmony. These slight yet ever-renewing changes are to us a source of endless delight. Either from the pure atmosphere, the healthy life we lead, or the accordant tone of our spirits, we find ourselves unusually sensitive to all the slightest touches, the most minute rays, of that grace and harmony which bathes every landscape in cloudless sunshine. The various groupings of the palms, the shifting of the blue evening shadows on the rose-hued mountain-walls, the green of the wheat and sugar-cane, the windings of the great river, the alternations of wind and calm,—each of these is enough to content us, and to give every day a different charm from that which went before. We meet contrary winds, calms, and sand-banks, without losing our patience; and even our excitement in the swiftness and grace with which our vessel scuds before the north wind, is mingled with a regret that our journey is drawing so much the more swiftly to its close. A portion of the old Egyptian repose seems to be infused into our natures; and lately, when I saw my face in a mirror, I thought I perceived in its features something of the patience and resignation of the sphinx.

My friend, the Howadji, in whose “Nile Notes” the Egyptian atmosphere is so perfectly reproduced, says that “conscience falls asleep on the Nile.” If by this he means that artificial quality which bigots and sectarians call conscience, I quite agree with him, and do not blame the Nile for its soporific powers. But that simple faculty of the soul, native to all men, which acts best when it acts unconsciously, and leads our passions and desires into right paths without seeming to lead them, is vastly strengthened by this quiet and healthy life. There is a cathedral-like solemnity in the air of Egypt; one feels the presence of the altar, and is a better man without his will. To those rendered misanthropic by disappointed ambition, mistrustful by betrayed confidence, despairing by unassuageable sorrow, let me repeat the motto which heads this chapter.

(‡ decoration)

(‡ decoration)NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.POET, AND THE MOST NOTED MAGAZINIST OF HIS DAY.IT is perhaps unfortunate for Willis that he was such a devotee of fashion and form as to attain a reputation for “foppishness.” Almost all men of genius have some habit or besetting sin which renders them personally more or less unpopular and sometimes even odious to the public eye. The noted poet, Coleridge, of England, had the opium habit, and many people who know this cannot divest their minds of a certain loathing for the man when they come to read his poems. The drink habit of Edgar Allen Poe and other unfortunate facts in his personal life have created a popular prejudice also against this brilliant but erratic genius. A like prejudice exists against the poet naturalist, Thoreau, whose isolation from men and attempt to live on a mere pittance has prejudiced many minds against the reading of his profitable productions; for it has been said that no man ever lived closer to the heart of nature than did this friend of the birds, the insects, animals, flowers, mountains and rivers. It is doubtful if any man in literature has lived a purer life or possessed in his sphere a more exalted genius, given us so close an insight into nature, or awakened a more enthusiastic study of the subject.Therefore let us look with a deserving charity upon the personal pride, or “foppishness,” if we may call it such, of the poet, Willis. He certainly deserves more general reputation as a poet than modern critics are disposed to accord him. Many of his pieces are of an extraordinary grade of merit, signifying a most analytical and poetic mind, and evincing a marked talent and facility for versification and prose writing executed in a style of peculiar grace and beauty.Nathaniel Parker Willis was born in Portland, January20th1806. The family traces its ancestry back to the fifteenth century in England, and for more than two hundred years prior to his birth both his paternal and maternal ancestors had lived in New England. The poet’s father was for several years publisher and editor of the Easton “Argus,” a political paper established at Portland, Maine, in 1803. He founded a religious paper, the Boston “Recorder,” in 1816, which he conducted for twenty years, and he was also the founder of the first child’s newspaper in the world, which is the now famous and widely circulated “Youth’s Companion.” Willis was six years old when his father removed to Boston. He had the best educational facilities from private tutors and select schools, completing his course at Yale College, where he graduated in 1827. While in college he published several religious poems♦under the signature of “Roy,” gaining in one instance a prize offifty dollars for the best poem. After his graduation Willis became the editor of a series of volumes published by S. G. Goodrich, entitled “The Legendary.” He next established the “American Monthly Magazine” which he merged after two years into the New York “Mirror,” to which paper his “Pencilings by the Way” were contributed during a four year’s tour in Europe, on which journey he was attached to the American legation at Paris, and with a diplomatic passport visited the various capitals of Europe and the East. During this sojourn, in 1835, he married Miss Mary Stace, daughter of a Waterloo officer.♦‘unter’ replaced with ‘under’After his marriageMr.Willis returned to this country with his wife and established a home on the Susquehanna River, which he called Glenmary, the latter part of the word being in honor of his wife. Here he hoped to spend the remainder of his days quietly in such literary work as pleased his taste, but the resources from which his support came were swept away in a financial disaster and he was forced to return to active life. He disposed of his country seat, removed to New York, and in connection withDr.Porter established the “Corsair,” a weekly journal. In the interest of this publicationMr.Willis made a second journey to England, engagingMr.Thackeray and other well-known writers as contributors. While absent he published a miscellany of his magazine stories with the title of “Loiterings of Travel” and also two of his plays. On returning to New York he found thatDr.Porter had suddenly abandoned their project in discouragement and he formed a new connection with the “Evening Mirror.” Soon after this the death of his wife occurred, his own health failed, and he went abroad determining to spend his life in Germany. On reaching Berlin he was attached to the American legation, but went away on a leave of absence to place his daughter in school in England. In the meantime his health grew so precarious that instead of returning to Berlin he sailed for America, where he spent the remainder of his life in contributing to various magazines. He established a home, “Idlewild,” in the highlands of the Hudson beyond West Point, where he died in 1867 on his sixty-first birthday.Throughout his lifeMr.Willis was an untiring worker and his days were no doubt ended much earlier than if he had taken proper rest. “The poetry ofMr.Willis,” says Duyckinck, “is musical and original. His religious poems belong to a class of composition which critics might object to did not experience show them to be pleasing and profitable interpreters to many minds. The versification of these poems is of remarkable smoothness. Indeed they have gained the author’s reputation where his nicer poems would have failed to be appreciated. On the other hand his novel in rhyme, ‘Lady Jane,’ is one of the very choicest of the numerous poems cast in the model of ‘Don Juan;’ while his dramas are delicate creations of sentiment and passion with a relic of the old poetic Elizabethan stage.” As a travelerMr.Willis has no superior in representing the humors and experiences of the world. He is sympathetic, witty, observant, and at the same time inventive. That his labors were pursued through broken health with unremitting diligence is another claim to consideration which the public should be prompt to acknowledge.DAVID’S LAMENT FOR ABSALOM.THE waters slept. Night’s silvery veil hung lowOn Jordan’s bosom, and the eddies curledTheir glassy rings beneath it, like the still,Unbroken beating of the sleeper’s pulse.The reeds bent down the stream: the willow leavesWith a soft cheek upon the lulling tide,Forgot the lifting winds; and the long stemsWhose flowers the water, like a gentle nurseBears on its bosom, quietly gave way,And leaned, in graceful attitude, to rest.How strikingly the course of nature tellsBy its light heed of human suffering,That it was fashioned for a happier world.King David’s limbs were weary. He had fledFrom far Jerusalem: and now he stoodWith his faint people, for a little space,Upon the shore of Jordan. The light windOf morn was stirring, and he bared his brow,To its refreshing breath; for he had wornThe mourner’s covering, and had not feltThat he could see his people until now.They gathered round him on the fresh green bankAnd spoke their kindly words: and as the sunRose up in heaven, he knelt among them there,And bowed his head upon his hands to pray.Oh! when the heart is full,—when bitter thoughtsCome crowding thickly up for utterance,And the poor common words of courtesy,Are such a very mockery—how muchThe bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!He prayed for Israel: and his voice went upStrongly and fervently. He prayed for those,Whose love had been his shield: and his deep tonesGrew tremulous. But, oh! for Absalom,—For his estranged, misguided Absalom.—The proud bright being who had burst awayIn all his princely beauty, to defyThe heart that cherished him—for him he pouredIn agony that would not be controlledStrong supplication, and forgave him there,Before his God, for his deep sinfulness.The pall was settled. He who slept beneathWas straightened for the grave: and as the foldsSank to the still proportions, they betrayedThe matchless symmetry of Absalom.His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curlsWere floating round the tassels as they swayedTo the admitted air, as glossy nowAs when in hours of gentle dalliance, bathingThe snowy fingers of Judea’s girls.His helm was at his feet: his banner soiledWith trailing through Jerusalem, was laid,Reversed, beside him; and the jeweled hiltWhose diamonds lit the passage of his blade,Rested like mockery on his covered brow.The soldiers of the king trod to and fro,Clad in the garb of battle; and their chief,The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier,And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly,As if he feared the slumberer might stir.A slow step startled him. He grasped his bladeAs if a trumpet rang: but the bent formOf David entered, and he gave commandIn a low tone to his few followers,And left him with his dead. The King stood stillTill the last echo died: then, throwing offThe sackcloth from his brow, and laying backThe pall from the still features of his child,He bowed his head upon him, and broke forthIn the resistless eloquence of woe:“Alas! my noble boy! that thou should’st die,—Thou who wert made so beautifully fair!That death should settle in thy glorious eye,And leave his stillness in this clustering hair—How could he mark thee for the silent tomb;My proud boy, Absalom!“Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chillAs to my bosom I have tried to press thee—How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill,Like a rich harp string, yearning to caress thee—And hear thy sweet ‘My father,’ from these dumbAnd cold lips, Absalom!“The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gushOf music, and the voices of the young:And life will pass me in the mantling blush,And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung,—But thou no more with thy sweet voice shall comeTo meet me, Absalom!“And, oh! when I am stricken, and my heartLike a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken,How will its love for thee, as I depart,Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token!It were so sweet, amid death’s gathering gloom,To see thee, Absalom!“And now farewell. ’Tis hard to give thee up,With death so like a gentle slumber on thee;And thy dark sin—oh! I could drink the cupIf from this woe its bitterness had won thee.May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home,My lost boy, Absalom!”He covered up his face, and bowed himselfA moment on his child; then giving himA look of melting tenderness, he claspedHis hands convulsively, as if in prayer:And as if strength were given him of God,He rose up calmly and composed the pallFirmly and decently,—and left him there,As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.THE DYING ALCHEMIST.THE night-wind with a desolate moan swept by,And the old shutters of the turret swungCreaking upon their hinges; and the moon,As the torn edges of the clouds flew past,Struggled aslant the stained and broken panesSo dimly, that the watchful eye of deathScarcely was conscious when it went and came.The fire beneath his crucible was low,Yet still it burned: and ever, as his thoughtsGrew insupportable, he raised himselfUpon his wasted arm, and stirred the coalsWith difficult energy; and when the rodFell from his nerveless fingers, and his eyeFelt faint within its socket, he shrank backUpon his pallet, and, with unclosed lips,Muttered a curse on death!The silent room,From its dim corners, mockingly gave backHis rattling breath; the humming in the fireHad the distinctness of a knell; and whenDuly the antique horologe beat one,He drew a phial from beneath his head,And drank. And instantly his lips compressed,And, with a shudder in his skeleton frame,He rose with supernatural strength, and satUpright, and communed with himself:“I did not think to dieTill I had finished what I had to do;I thought to pierce th’ eternal secret throughWith this my mortal eye;I felt,—Oh, God! it seemeth even now—This cannot be the death-dew on my brow;Grant me another year,God of my spirit!—but a day,—to winSomething to satisfy this thirst within!I wouldknowsomething here!Break for me but one seal that is unbroken!Speak for me but one word that is unspoken!“Vain,—vain,—my brain is turningWith a swift dizziness, and my heart grows sick,And these hot temple-throbs come fast and thick,And I am freezing,—burning,—Dying! Oh, God! if I might only live!My phial——Ha! it thrills me,—I revive.“Aye,—were not man to die,He were too mighty for this narrow sphere!Had he but time to brood on knowledge here,—Could he but train his eye,—Might he but wait the mystic word and hour,—Only his Maker would transcend his power!“This were indeed to feelThe soul-thirst slacken at the living stream,—To live, Oh, God! that life is but a dream!And death——Aha! I reel,—Dim,—dim,—I faint, darkness comes o’er my eye,—Cover me! save me!——God of heaven! I die!”’Twas morning, and the old man lay alone.No friend had closed his eyelids, and his lips,Open and ashy pale, th’ expression woreOf his death struggle. His long silvery hairLay on his hollow temples, thin and wild,His frame was wasted, and his features wanAnd haggard as with want, and in his palmHis nails were driven deep, as if the throeOf the last agony had wrung him sore.The storm was raging still. The shutter swung,Creaking as harshly in the fitful wind,And all without went on,—as aye it will,Sunshine or tempest, reckless that a heartIs breaking, or has broken, in its change.The fire beneath the crucible was out.The vessels of his mystic art lay round,Useless and cold as the ambitious handThat fashioned them, and the small rod,Familiar to his touch for threescore years,Lay on th’ alembic’s rim, as if it stillMight vex the elements at its master’s will.And thus had passed from its unequal frameA soul of fire,—a sun-bent eagle stricken.From his high soaring, down,—an instrumentBroken with its own compass. Oh, how poorSeems the rich gift of genius, when it lies,Like the adventurous bird that hath outflownHis strength upon the sea, ambition wrecked,—A thing the thrush might pity, as she sitsBrooding in quiet on her lowly nest.THE BELFRY PIGEON.ON the cross-beam under the Old South bellThe nest of a pigeon is builded well,In summer and winter that bird is there,Out and in with the morning air.I love to see him track the street,With his wary eye and active feet;And I often watch him as he springs,Circling the steeple with easy wings,Till across the dial his shade has passed,And the belfry edge is gained at last.’Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note,And the trembling throb in its mottled throat;There’s a human look in its swelling breast.And the gentle curve of its lowly crest;And I often stop with the fear I feel,He runs so close to the rapid wheel.Whatever is rung on that noisy bell,Chime of the hour or funeral knell,The dove in the belfry must hear it well.When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon,When the sexton cheerily rings for noon,When the clock strikes clear at morning light,When the child is waked with “nine at night,”When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air,Filling the spirit with tones of prayer,Whatever tale in the bell is heard,He broods on his folded feet, unstirred,Or, rising half in his rounded nest,He takes the time to smooth his breast;Then drops again, with filmed eyes,And sleeps as the last vibration dies.Sweet bird! I would that I could beA hermit in the crowd like thee!With wings to fly to wood and glen,Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men;And daily, with unwilling feet,I tread, like thee, the crowded street;But, unlike me, when day is o’er,Thou canst dismiss the world, and soar;Or, at a half-felt wish for rest,Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast,And drop, forgetful, to thy nest.I would that in such wings of gold,I could my weary heart up-fold;I would I could look down unmoved,(Unloving as I am unloved,)And while the world throngs on beneath,Smooth down my cares, and calmly breathe;And never sad with others’ sadness,And never glad with others’ gladness,Listen, unstirred, to knell or chime,And, lapped in quiet, bide my time.(‡ decoration)

(‡ decoration)

POET, AND THE MOST NOTED MAGAZINIST OF HIS DAY.

IT is perhaps unfortunate for Willis that he was such a devotee of fashion and form as to attain a reputation for “foppishness.” Almost all men of genius have some habit or besetting sin which renders them personally more or less unpopular and sometimes even odious to the public eye. The noted poet, Coleridge, of England, had the opium habit, and many people who know this cannot divest their minds of a certain loathing for the man when they come to read his poems. The drink habit of Edgar Allen Poe and other unfortunate facts in his personal life have created a popular prejudice also against this brilliant but erratic genius. A like prejudice exists against the poet naturalist, Thoreau, whose isolation from men and attempt to live on a mere pittance has prejudiced many minds against the reading of his profitable productions; for it has been said that no man ever lived closer to the heart of nature than did this friend of the birds, the insects, animals, flowers, mountains and rivers. It is doubtful if any man in literature has lived a purer life or possessed in his sphere a more exalted genius, given us so close an insight into nature, or awakened a more enthusiastic study of the subject.

Therefore let us look with a deserving charity upon the personal pride, or “foppishness,” if we may call it such, of the poet, Willis. He certainly deserves more general reputation as a poet than modern critics are disposed to accord him. Many of his pieces are of an extraordinary grade of merit, signifying a most analytical and poetic mind, and evincing a marked talent and facility for versification and prose writing executed in a style of peculiar grace and beauty.

Nathaniel Parker Willis was born in Portland, January20th1806. The family traces its ancestry back to the fifteenth century in England, and for more than two hundred years prior to his birth both his paternal and maternal ancestors had lived in New England. The poet’s father was for several years publisher and editor of the Easton “Argus,” a political paper established at Portland, Maine, in 1803. He founded a religious paper, the Boston “Recorder,” in 1816, which he conducted for twenty years, and he was also the founder of the first child’s newspaper in the world, which is the now famous and widely circulated “Youth’s Companion.” Willis was six years old when his father removed to Boston. He had the best educational facilities from private tutors and select schools, completing his course at Yale College, where he graduated in 1827. While in college he published several religious poems♦under the signature of “Roy,” gaining in one instance a prize offifty dollars for the best poem. After his graduation Willis became the editor of a series of volumes published by S. G. Goodrich, entitled “The Legendary.” He next established the “American Monthly Magazine” which he merged after two years into the New York “Mirror,” to which paper his “Pencilings by the Way” were contributed during a four year’s tour in Europe, on which journey he was attached to the American legation at Paris, and with a diplomatic passport visited the various capitals of Europe and the East. During this sojourn, in 1835, he married Miss Mary Stace, daughter of a Waterloo officer.

♦‘unter’ replaced with ‘under’

After his marriageMr.Willis returned to this country with his wife and established a home on the Susquehanna River, which he called Glenmary, the latter part of the word being in honor of his wife. Here he hoped to spend the remainder of his days quietly in such literary work as pleased his taste, but the resources from which his support came were swept away in a financial disaster and he was forced to return to active life. He disposed of his country seat, removed to New York, and in connection withDr.Porter established the “Corsair,” a weekly journal. In the interest of this publicationMr.Willis made a second journey to England, engagingMr.Thackeray and other well-known writers as contributors. While absent he published a miscellany of his magazine stories with the title of “Loiterings of Travel” and also two of his plays. On returning to New York he found thatDr.Porter had suddenly abandoned their project in discouragement and he formed a new connection with the “Evening Mirror.” Soon after this the death of his wife occurred, his own health failed, and he went abroad determining to spend his life in Germany. On reaching Berlin he was attached to the American legation, but went away on a leave of absence to place his daughter in school in England. In the meantime his health grew so precarious that instead of returning to Berlin he sailed for America, where he spent the remainder of his life in contributing to various magazines. He established a home, “Idlewild,” in the highlands of the Hudson beyond West Point, where he died in 1867 on his sixty-first birthday.

Throughout his lifeMr.Willis was an untiring worker and his days were no doubt ended much earlier than if he had taken proper rest. “The poetry ofMr.Willis,” says Duyckinck, “is musical and original. His religious poems belong to a class of composition which critics might object to did not experience show them to be pleasing and profitable interpreters to many minds. The versification of these poems is of remarkable smoothness. Indeed they have gained the author’s reputation where his nicer poems would have failed to be appreciated. On the other hand his novel in rhyme, ‘Lady Jane,’ is one of the very choicest of the numerous poems cast in the model of ‘Don Juan;’ while his dramas are delicate creations of sentiment and passion with a relic of the old poetic Elizabethan stage.” As a travelerMr.Willis has no superior in representing the humors and experiences of the world. He is sympathetic, witty, observant, and at the same time inventive. That his labors were pursued through broken health with unremitting diligence is another claim to consideration which the public should be prompt to acknowledge.

DAVID’S LAMENT FOR ABSALOM.

THE waters slept. Night’s silvery veil hung lowOn Jordan’s bosom, and the eddies curledTheir glassy rings beneath it, like the still,Unbroken beating of the sleeper’s pulse.The reeds bent down the stream: the willow leavesWith a soft cheek upon the lulling tide,Forgot the lifting winds; and the long stemsWhose flowers the water, like a gentle nurseBears on its bosom, quietly gave way,And leaned, in graceful attitude, to rest.How strikingly the course of nature tellsBy its light heed of human suffering,That it was fashioned for a happier world.King David’s limbs were weary. He had fledFrom far Jerusalem: and now he stoodWith his faint people, for a little space,Upon the shore of Jordan. The light windOf morn was stirring, and he bared his brow,To its refreshing breath; for he had wornThe mourner’s covering, and had not feltThat he could see his people until now.They gathered round him on the fresh green bankAnd spoke their kindly words: and as the sunRose up in heaven, he knelt among them there,And bowed his head upon his hands to pray.Oh! when the heart is full,—when bitter thoughtsCome crowding thickly up for utterance,And the poor common words of courtesy,Are such a very mockery—how muchThe bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!He prayed for Israel: and his voice went upStrongly and fervently. He prayed for those,Whose love had been his shield: and his deep tonesGrew tremulous. But, oh! for Absalom,—For his estranged, misguided Absalom.—The proud bright being who had burst awayIn all his princely beauty, to defyThe heart that cherished him—for him he pouredIn agony that would not be controlledStrong supplication, and forgave him there,Before his God, for his deep sinfulness.The pall was settled. He who slept beneathWas straightened for the grave: and as the foldsSank to the still proportions, they betrayedThe matchless symmetry of Absalom.His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curlsWere floating round the tassels as they swayedTo the admitted air, as glossy nowAs when in hours of gentle dalliance, bathingThe snowy fingers of Judea’s girls.His helm was at his feet: his banner soiledWith trailing through Jerusalem, was laid,Reversed, beside him; and the jeweled hiltWhose diamonds lit the passage of his blade,Rested like mockery on his covered brow.The soldiers of the king trod to and fro,Clad in the garb of battle; and their chief,The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier,And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly,As if he feared the slumberer might stir.A slow step startled him. He grasped his bladeAs if a trumpet rang: but the bent formOf David entered, and he gave commandIn a low tone to his few followers,And left him with his dead. The King stood stillTill the last echo died: then, throwing offThe sackcloth from his brow, and laying backThe pall from the still features of his child,He bowed his head upon him, and broke forthIn the resistless eloquence of woe:“Alas! my noble boy! that thou should’st die,—Thou who wert made so beautifully fair!That death should settle in thy glorious eye,And leave his stillness in this clustering hair—How could he mark thee for the silent tomb;My proud boy, Absalom!“Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chillAs to my bosom I have tried to press thee—How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill,Like a rich harp string, yearning to caress thee—And hear thy sweet ‘My father,’ from these dumbAnd cold lips, Absalom!“The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gushOf music, and the voices of the young:And life will pass me in the mantling blush,And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung,—But thou no more with thy sweet voice shall comeTo meet me, Absalom!“And, oh! when I am stricken, and my heartLike a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken,How will its love for thee, as I depart,Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token!It were so sweet, amid death’s gathering gloom,To see thee, Absalom!“And now farewell. ’Tis hard to give thee up,With death so like a gentle slumber on thee;And thy dark sin—oh! I could drink the cupIf from this woe its bitterness had won thee.May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home,My lost boy, Absalom!”He covered up his face, and bowed himselfA moment on his child; then giving himA look of melting tenderness, he claspedHis hands convulsively, as if in prayer:And as if strength were given him of God,He rose up calmly and composed the pallFirmly and decently,—and left him there,As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.

HE waters slept. Night’s silvery veil hung low

On Jordan’s bosom, and the eddies curled

Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still,

Unbroken beating of the sleeper’s pulse.

The reeds bent down the stream: the willow leaves

With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide,

Forgot the lifting winds; and the long stems

Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse

Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way,

And leaned, in graceful attitude, to rest.

How strikingly the course of nature tells

By its light heed of human suffering,

That it was fashioned for a happier world.

King David’s limbs were weary. He had fled

From far Jerusalem: and now he stood

With his faint people, for a little space,

Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind

Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow,

To its refreshing breath; for he had worn

The mourner’s covering, and had not felt

That he could see his people until now.

They gathered round him on the fresh green bank

And spoke their kindly words: and as the sun

Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there,

And bowed his head upon his hands to pray.

Oh! when the heart is full,—when bitter thoughts

Come crowding thickly up for utterance,

And the poor common words of courtesy,

Are such a very mockery—how much

The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!

He prayed for Israel: and his voice went up

Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those,

Whose love had been his shield: and his deep tones

Grew tremulous. But, oh! for Absalom,—

For his estranged, misguided Absalom.—

The proud bright being who had burst away

In all his princely beauty, to defy

The heart that cherished him—for him he poured

In agony that would not be controlled

Strong supplication, and forgave him there,

Before his God, for his deep sinfulness.

The pall was settled. He who slept beneath

Was straightened for the grave: and as the folds

Sank to the still proportions, they betrayed

The matchless symmetry of Absalom.

His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls

Were floating round the tassels as they swayed

To the admitted air, as glossy now

As when in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing

The snowy fingers of Judea’s girls.

His helm was at his feet: his banner soiled

With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid,

Reversed, beside him; and the jeweled hilt

Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade,

Rested like mockery on his covered brow.

The soldiers of the king trod to and fro,

Clad in the garb of battle; and their chief,

The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier,

And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly,

As if he feared the slumberer might stir.

A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade

As if a trumpet rang: but the bent form

Of David entered, and he gave command

In a low tone to his few followers,

And left him with his dead. The King stood still

Till the last echo died: then, throwing off

The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back

The pall from the still features of his child,

He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth

In the resistless eloquence of woe:

“Alas! my noble boy! that thou should’st die,—

Thou who wert made so beautifully fair!

That death should settle in thy glorious eye,

And leave his stillness in this clustering hair—

How could he mark thee for the silent tomb;

My proud boy, Absalom!

“Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill

As to my bosom I have tried to press thee—

How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill,

Like a rich harp string, yearning to caress thee—

And hear thy sweet ‘My father,’ from these dumb

And cold lips, Absalom!

“The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush

Of music, and the voices of the young:

And life will pass me in the mantling blush,

And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung,—

But thou no more with thy sweet voice shall come

To meet me, Absalom!

“And, oh! when I am stricken, and my heart

Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken,

How will its love for thee, as I depart,

Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token!

It were so sweet, amid death’s gathering gloom,

To see thee, Absalom!

“And now farewell. ’Tis hard to give thee up,

With death so like a gentle slumber on thee;

And thy dark sin—oh! I could drink the cup

If from this woe its bitterness had won thee.

May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home,

My lost boy, Absalom!”

He covered up his face, and bowed himself

A moment on his child; then giving him

A look of melting tenderness, he clasped

His hands convulsively, as if in prayer:

And as if strength were given him of God,

He rose up calmly and composed the pall

Firmly and decently,—and left him there,

As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.

THE DYING ALCHEMIST.

THE night-wind with a desolate moan swept by,And the old shutters of the turret swungCreaking upon their hinges; and the moon,As the torn edges of the clouds flew past,Struggled aslant the stained and broken panesSo dimly, that the watchful eye of deathScarcely was conscious when it went and came.The fire beneath his crucible was low,Yet still it burned: and ever, as his thoughtsGrew insupportable, he raised himselfUpon his wasted arm, and stirred the coalsWith difficult energy; and when the rodFell from his nerveless fingers, and his eyeFelt faint within its socket, he shrank backUpon his pallet, and, with unclosed lips,Muttered a curse on death!The silent room,From its dim corners, mockingly gave backHis rattling breath; the humming in the fireHad the distinctness of a knell; and whenDuly the antique horologe beat one,He drew a phial from beneath his head,And drank. And instantly his lips compressed,And, with a shudder in his skeleton frame,He rose with supernatural strength, and satUpright, and communed with himself:“I did not think to dieTill I had finished what I had to do;I thought to pierce th’ eternal secret throughWith this my mortal eye;I felt,—Oh, God! it seemeth even now—This cannot be the death-dew on my brow;Grant me another year,God of my spirit!—but a day,—to winSomething to satisfy this thirst within!I wouldknowsomething here!Break for me but one seal that is unbroken!Speak for me but one word that is unspoken!“Vain,—vain,—my brain is turningWith a swift dizziness, and my heart grows sick,And these hot temple-throbs come fast and thick,And I am freezing,—burning,—Dying! Oh, God! if I might only live!My phial——Ha! it thrills me,—I revive.“Aye,—were not man to die,He were too mighty for this narrow sphere!Had he but time to brood on knowledge here,—Could he but train his eye,—Might he but wait the mystic word and hour,—Only his Maker would transcend his power!“This were indeed to feelThe soul-thirst slacken at the living stream,—To live, Oh, God! that life is but a dream!And death——Aha! I reel,—Dim,—dim,—I faint, darkness comes o’er my eye,—Cover me! save me!——God of heaven! I die!”’Twas morning, and the old man lay alone.No friend had closed his eyelids, and his lips,Open and ashy pale, th’ expression woreOf his death struggle. His long silvery hairLay on his hollow temples, thin and wild,His frame was wasted, and his features wanAnd haggard as with want, and in his palmHis nails were driven deep, as if the throeOf the last agony had wrung him sore.The storm was raging still. The shutter swung,Creaking as harshly in the fitful wind,And all without went on,—as aye it will,Sunshine or tempest, reckless that a heartIs breaking, or has broken, in its change.The fire beneath the crucible was out.The vessels of his mystic art lay round,Useless and cold as the ambitious handThat fashioned them, and the small rod,Familiar to his touch for threescore years,Lay on th’ alembic’s rim, as if it stillMight vex the elements at its master’s will.And thus had passed from its unequal frameA soul of fire,—a sun-bent eagle stricken.From his high soaring, down,—an instrumentBroken with its own compass. Oh, how poorSeems the rich gift of genius, when it lies,Like the adventurous bird that hath outflownHis strength upon the sea, ambition wrecked,—A thing the thrush might pity, as she sitsBrooding in quiet on her lowly nest.

HE night-wind with a desolate moan swept by,

And the old shutters of the turret swung

Creaking upon their hinges; and the moon,

As the torn edges of the clouds flew past,

Struggled aslant the stained and broken panes

So dimly, that the watchful eye of death

Scarcely was conscious when it went and came.

The fire beneath his crucible was low,

Yet still it burned: and ever, as his thoughts

Grew insupportable, he raised himself

Upon his wasted arm, and stirred the coals

With difficult energy; and when the rod

Fell from his nerveless fingers, and his eye

Felt faint within its socket, he shrank back

Upon his pallet, and, with unclosed lips,

Muttered a curse on death!

The silent room,

From its dim corners, mockingly gave back

His rattling breath; the humming in the fire

Had the distinctness of a knell; and when

Duly the antique horologe beat one,

He drew a phial from beneath his head,

And drank. And instantly his lips compressed,

And, with a shudder in his skeleton frame,

He rose with supernatural strength, and sat

Upright, and communed with himself:

“I did not think to die

Till I had finished what I had to do;

I thought to pierce th’ eternal secret through

With this my mortal eye;

I felt,—Oh, God! it seemeth even now—

This cannot be the death-dew on my brow;

Grant me another year,

God of my spirit!—but a day,—to win

Something to satisfy this thirst within!

I wouldknowsomething here!

Break for me but one seal that is unbroken!

Speak for me but one word that is unspoken!

“Vain,—vain,—my brain is turning

With a swift dizziness, and my heart grows sick,

And these hot temple-throbs come fast and thick,

And I am freezing,—burning,—

Dying! Oh, God! if I might only live!

My phial——Ha! it thrills me,—I revive.

“Aye,—were not man to die,

He were too mighty for this narrow sphere!

Had he but time to brood on knowledge here,—

Could he but train his eye,—

Might he but wait the mystic word and hour,—

Only his Maker would transcend his power!

“This were indeed to feel

The soul-thirst slacken at the living stream,—

To live, Oh, God! that life is but a dream!

And death——Aha! I reel,—

Dim,—dim,—I faint, darkness comes o’er my eye,—

Cover me! save me!——God of heaven! I die!”

’Twas morning, and the old man lay alone.

No friend had closed his eyelids, and his lips,

Open and ashy pale, th’ expression wore

Of his death struggle. His long silvery hair

Lay on his hollow temples, thin and wild,

His frame was wasted, and his features wan

And haggard as with want, and in his palm

His nails were driven deep, as if the throe

Of the last agony had wrung him sore.

The storm was raging still. The shutter swung,

Creaking as harshly in the fitful wind,

And all without went on,—as aye it will,

Sunshine or tempest, reckless that a heart

Is breaking, or has broken, in its change.

The fire beneath the crucible was out.

The vessels of his mystic art lay round,

Useless and cold as the ambitious hand

That fashioned them, and the small rod,

Familiar to his touch for threescore years,

Lay on th’ alembic’s rim, as if it still

Might vex the elements at its master’s will.

And thus had passed from its unequal frame

A soul of fire,—a sun-bent eagle stricken.

From his high soaring, down,—an instrument

Broken with its own compass. Oh, how poor

Seems the rich gift of genius, when it lies,

Like the adventurous bird that hath outflown

His strength upon the sea, ambition wrecked,—

A thing the thrush might pity, as she sits

Brooding in quiet on her lowly nest.

THE BELFRY PIGEON.

ON the cross-beam under the Old South bellThe nest of a pigeon is builded well,In summer and winter that bird is there,Out and in with the morning air.I love to see him track the street,With his wary eye and active feet;And I often watch him as he springs,Circling the steeple with easy wings,Till across the dial his shade has passed,And the belfry edge is gained at last.’Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note,And the trembling throb in its mottled throat;There’s a human look in its swelling breast.And the gentle curve of its lowly crest;And I often stop with the fear I feel,He runs so close to the rapid wheel.Whatever is rung on that noisy bell,Chime of the hour or funeral knell,The dove in the belfry must hear it well.When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon,When the sexton cheerily rings for noon,When the clock strikes clear at morning light,When the child is waked with “nine at night,”When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air,Filling the spirit with tones of prayer,Whatever tale in the bell is heard,He broods on his folded feet, unstirred,Or, rising half in his rounded nest,He takes the time to smooth his breast;Then drops again, with filmed eyes,And sleeps as the last vibration dies.Sweet bird! I would that I could beA hermit in the crowd like thee!With wings to fly to wood and glen,Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men;And daily, with unwilling feet,I tread, like thee, the crowded street;But, unlike me, when day is o’er,Thou canst dismiss the world, and soar;Or, at a half-felt wish for rest,Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast,And drop, forgetful, to thy nest.I would that in such wings of gold,I could my weary heart up-fold;I would I could look down unmoved,(Unloving as I am unloved,)And while the world throngs on beneath,Smooth down my cares, and calmly breathe;And never sad with others’ sadness,And never glad with others’ gladness,Listen, unstirred, to knell or chime,And, lapped in quiet, bide my time.

N the cross-beam under the Old South bell

The nest of a pigeon is builded well,

In summer and winter that bird is there,

Out and in with the morning air.

I love to see him track the street,

With his wary eye and active feet;

And I often watch him as he springs,

Circling the steeple with easy wings,

Till across the dial his shade has passed,

And the belfry edge is gained at last.

’Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note,

And the trembling throb in its mottled throat;

There’s a human look in its swelling breast.

And the gentle curve of its lowly crest;

And I often stop with the fear I feel,

He runs so close to the rapid wheel.

Whatever is rung on that noisy bell,

Chime of the hour or funeral knell,

The dove in the belfry must hear it well.

When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon,

When the sexton cheerily rings for noon,

When the clock strikes clear at morning light,

When the child is waked with “nine at night,”

When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air,

Filling the spirit with tones of prayer,

Whatever tale in the bell is heard,

He broods on his folded feet, unstirred,

Or, rising half in his rounded nest,

He takes the time to smooth his breast;

Then drops again, with filmed eyes,

And sleeps as the last vibration dies.

Sweet bird! I would that I could be

A hermit in the crowd like thee!

With wings to fly to wood and glen,

Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men;

And daily, with unwilling feet,

I tread, like thee, the crowded street;

But, unlike me, when day is o’er,

Thou canst dismiss the world, and soar;

Or, at a half-felt wish for rest,

Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast,

And drop, forgetful, to thy nest.

I would that in such wings of gold,

I could my weary heart up-fold;

I would I could look down unmoved,

(Unloving as I am unloved,)

And while the world throngs on beneath,

Smooth down my cares, and calmly breathe;

And never sad with others’ sadness,

And never glad with others’ gladness,

Listen, unstirred, to knell or chime,

And, lapped in quiet, bide my time.

(‡ decoration)

Back to Index Next