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1 2 3

POEM

OILlVKRICn BBFORB THE

SOCIETY OF UNITED BROTHERS,

AT •^' '

BROWN UNIVERSITY,

ON TUB BAV PIIECBDING n O M M t N C ■ M « NT,
SEPTEMBER 6, 1831.

WITH OTHER POEMS.

N. P. WILLIS.

^ctosPovft :

PUBLISHED BY J. & J. IIARPEB,

NO. 82 CI.irr-STRKKT.
ANI» SOLD BY THE PRINCIPAL BOOKSELLERS THROUOHOUT

THE uniti5;d states.
1831.

inth«y«on. t..ov,«n.| ««1^' '■-f't"'' Z^^"^^;

le, by •'•,*_;•" „Al'.w.Vork.

Sh7™lTi.Wc;orN'e«-York

TO ONE—

Ot WHOM, IN THIS II0M«NT OF DBPARfOHle FOR A KIIUCION LANl.,

I THINK, BADLY AMD ONLT-

T O MY MO THE R,

THIS VOLUMK IB, WITH THK DKUPKBT AFFECTION OF IIEK SON,
FONDLY AND KBSl'KCTFULLY DEDICATED.

POEM

DILIVBRBD BBrORB TUB

SOCIETY OF UNITED BROTHERS,

AT BROWN UNIVERSITY,

On llu day pntnling Coinmttutm§nt, Sept- 6, IS3I|

■ it

BV N. 1*. WILLIS.

^■^^'W

POEM.

If in the eyes that rest upon me now
I see the light of an immortal fire —
If in the awe of concentrated thought,
The solemn presence of a multitude
Breathing together, the instinctive mind
Acknowledges aright a type of God—
If every soul that from its chambers dim
Answers this summons, be a deathless spark
Lit to outbum the ever constant stars,—
Then is the ruling spirit of tliis hour
Compell'd from Heaven, and if the soaring minds
Usher'd this day upon an untr= 1 flight
Stoop not their courses, we are jr.et to cheer
Spirits of Ught sprung freshly on their way.

%~f

POEM.

How strangely certain is tho human mina,
OodUko and Kiacd us it in, to err I
It wakes within a frame of various powers,
A stranger in a new and wondrous world.
It brings an instinct from some other sphere,
For its fine senses arc familiar all,
And, with th' unconscious habit of a dream,
It calls, and they olx^y. The priceless sight
Springs to its curious organ, and the ear
Learns strangely to detect the articulate air
In its unseen divisions, and the tongue
Gets its miraculous lesson with the rest,
And in the midst of an obedient throng
Of weU-trained ministers, the mind goes forth
To search the secrets of a new-found home.

Its infancy is full of hope and joy.
Knowledge is sweet, and Nature is a nurse
Gentle and holy; and the hght and air.
And all things common, warm it like the sun.
And ripen the eternal seed within.
And so its youth glides on ; and still it seems
A heavenward spirit, straying oftentimes,
But never widely ; and if Death might come
And ravish it from earth as it is now.
We could ahnost believe that it would mount.

^Si.

POKM.

Spotless and radiant, from the very prave.

But iniinlicKHl comes, and in its lx)som sits

Another spirit. Stranger as it seemfi,

It is fannliur thert^, for it han grown

In the unsearclid recesses all unseen, —

Or if its shadow darkened the bright doors,

'Twas smiled upon and gently driven in;

And as the spider and the honey-bee

Feed on the same bright flowers, this mocking soul

Fed with its purer brother, and grew strong,

Till now, in semblance of the soul itself,

With its own mien and scej)tre, and a voice

Sweet as an angel's and as full of power,

It sits, a lx)ld usurper on the throne.

What is its nature .^ 'Tis a child of clay.

And born of human passions. In its train

Follow all things unholy— Love of Gold,

Ambition, Pleasure, Pride of place, or name,

All that we worship for itself alone.

All that we may not carry through the grave.

We have made idols of these perishing things

Till they have grown time-honored on their shrines.

And all men bow to them. Yet \vhat arc they .'

What is Ambition ? 'Tis a glorious cheat!

Angels of light walk not so daz/Jingly

The sapphire walls of Heaven. The unsearch'd mine

POEM.

Hath not such gems. Earth's coii stellated thrones
Have not such pomp of purple and of gold.
It hath no features. In its liice is set
A mirror, and the gazer sees liis own.
It looks a godj but it is like himself!
It hath a mien of empery, and smiles
Majestically sweet— but how like him !
It follows not with Fortune. It is seen
Rarely or never in the rich man's hall.
It seeks the chamber of the gifted boy,
And lifts his humble window, and conies in.
The narrow walls expand, and spread away
Into a kingly palace, and the roof
Lifts to the sky, and umeen fingers work
The ceilings with rich blazonry, and write
His name in burning letters over all.
And ever, as he shuts his wildered eyes.
The phantom comes and lays upon his lids
A speir that nuuders sleep, and in his ear
Whispers a deathless word, and on his brain
Breathes a fierce thirst no water will allay.
He is its slave henceforth ! His days are spent
In chaining down his heart, and watching where
To rise by human weaknesses. His nights
Bring liim no rest in all their blessed hours.
His kindred are forgotten or estranged.

POEM.

Unhealtliful fires burn constant in bis eye.
His lip grows restless, and its smile is curl'd
Half into scorn — till the bright, fiery boy,
That was a daily blessing but to see,
His spirit was so bird-like and so pure,
Is frozen, in the very flush of youth.
Into a cold, care-fretted, heartless man t

And what is its reward ? At best, a name !
Praise — when the ear has grown too dull to hear ;
Gold — when the senses it should please are dead ;
Wreaths — when the hair they cover l. . grown gray ;
Fame — when the heart it should have thrill'd is numb ;
All things but love — wlien love is all we want.
And close behind comes Death, and ere we know
That even these unavailing gifts are ours,
He sends us, stripp'd and naked, to the grave !

Is it its own reward 1 Reply to it
Every aspiring heart within these walls !
Summon the shadows of those bitter hours
Wasted in brooding on neglect ! Recall
The burning tears wrung from a throbbinj]^ brain
By a proud effort foil'd ; and after all
These agonies are nurnber'd, rack your heart
Back to its own self-nurtur'd wretchedness.

POEM.

And when the pangs are crowded into one
Of all life's scorpion-stings, and Death itself
Is sent or stayed, as it would bless or curse,
Tell me if self -mis giving torture not
Unutterably more !

Yet this is all !
The world has no such glorious phantom else.
The spirit that could slave itself to Gold
Hath never drunk of knowledge at the well.
And Pleasure^ if the senses would expand
And multiply with using, might delude
The flesh-imprisoned fancy — but not long.
And earthly Love — if measured, is too tame —
And if it drink, as in proud hearts it will,
At the deep springs of life, is but a cloud
Brooding with nameless sorrow on the soul —
A sadness — a sick-heartedness — a tear !

And these arc the high idols of this world f
Retreating shadows cmight but at the grave —
Mocking delusions, changing at the touch —
Of one false spirit the false children all.
And yet, what godlike gifts neglected lie
Wasting and niarr'd in the forgotten soul !
The finest workmanship of CjIoiI is there.
'Tis fleeter than the wings of light and wind ;

>'. KM.

'Tis subtler than the rarest shape of air ;
Fire and wind and water do its will ;
Earth has no secret from its delicate eye ;
The air no alchymy it solveth not ;
The star-writ H(?aven8 are read and understood,
And every sparry mineral hath a name,
And truth is recogniz'd, and beauty felt,
And God's own image stamp'd upon its brow.

How is it so forgotten I Will it live
When the great firmament is rolled away?
Hath it a voice forevpr audible,
" I AM ETERNAL !" Can it overcome
This mocking passion-fiend, and even here
Live like a seraph upon truth and light?

How can we ever be the slaves we are,
With a sweet angel sitting in our breasts !
How can we creep so lowly, when our wings
Tremble and plead for fieedom ! Look at him
Who reads aright the image on his soul,
And gives it nurture like a child of light.
His life is calm and blessed, for his peace.
Like a rich pearl beyond the diver's ken.
Lies deep in his own Iwsom. He is pure,
For the soul's errands are not done witli men.

POEM.

His senses are subdued and serve the soul.
He feels no void, for every faculty
Is used, and the fine balance of desire
Is perfect, and strains evenly, and on.
Content dwells with him, for his mind is fed,
And Temperance has driven out unrest.
He heaps no gold. It cannot buy him more
Of any thing he needs. The air of Heaven
Visits no freshhcr the rich man's brow ;
He has his portion of each silver star
Sent to his eye as freely, and the light
Of the blest sun pours on his boolc as clear
As on the golden missal of a king.
The spicy flowers are free to him ; the sward.
And tender moss, and matted forest leaves
Are as elastic to his weary feci ;
The pictures in the fountains, and beneath
The spreading trees, fine pencilings of light,
Stay while he gazes on tliem ; the bright birds
Know not that he is poor ; and as he comes
From his low roof at morn, up goes the lark
Mounting and singing to the gate of Heaven,
And merrily away the little brook
Trips with its feet of silver, and a voice
Almost articulate, of perfect joy.
Air to his forehead, water to his lips,

POEM.

Heat to his blood, come just as faithfully.
And his own faculties as freely play.
IjOVC fills his voice with music, and the tear
Springs at as light a bidding to his ey e ;
And his free limbs obey him, and his sight
Flies on its wondrous errands every where.

What docs he need ? Next to the works of God
His friends are the rapt sages of old time ;
And they impart their wisdom to his soul
In lavish fulness, when and where he will.
He sits in his mean dwcUuig and communes
With Socrates and Plato, and the shades
Of all great men and holy, and the words
Written in fire by Milton, and the King
Of Israel, and the troop of glorious bards.
Ravish and steal his soul up to the sky —
And what is it to him, if these come in
And visit him, that at his humble door
There are no pillars with rich capitals
And walls of curious workmanship witliin ?

I stand not here in Wisdom's sacred stole.
My lips have not been touch'd with holy fire.
An humbler office than a counsellor
Of human duties, and an humbler place

POEM.

Would better grace my knowledge and my years.
I would not seem presuming. Yet have I
Mingled a little in this earnest world,
And staked ui^n its chances, and have learned
Truths that I never gather'd from my books.
And though the lessons they have taught me seem
Things of the wayside to the practised «i«?/,
It is a wisdom by much wandering learned;
And if but one young spirit bend its wing
More in the eye of Heaven because it knew
The erring courses that bewildered mine,
I have not sufiered, nor shall teach in vain.

It is a lesson oftener learned than loved—
All knowledge is not nourishment. The mind
May pine upon its food. In reckless thirst
The scholar sometimes kneels l^eside the stream
Polluted by the lepers of the mind.
The sceptic, with his doubts of all things good
And faith in all things evil, has been there;
And, as the stream was mingled, he has strown
The shore with all bright flowers to tempt the eye,
And sloped the banks down gently for the feet ;
And Genius, like a fallen child of light.
Has filled the place with magic, and compell'd
Most beautiful creations into forms

POEM.

And images of license, and they come

And tempt you with bewildering grace to kneel

And drink of the wild waters; and behind

Stand the strong Passions, pleading to go in;

And the approving world looks silent on;

Till the pleased mind conspires against itself,

And finds a subtle reason why 'tis good.

We are deceived, though, even as we drink,

We taste the evil. In his sweetest tone

The lying Tempter whispers in our ear,

«Tho' it may s^ain, 'twill strengthen your proud wings ;"

And in the wild ambition of the soul

We drink anew, and dream like Lucifer

To mount upon our daring draught to Heaven.

I need not follow the similitude.
Health is vitality, and if the mind
Is fed on poison, it must lose its power.
The vision that forever strains to err
Soon finds its task a habit; and the taste
That will own nothing true or beautiful
Soon finds the world distorted as itself;
And the loose mind, that feeds an appetite
For the enticements of licentious thought.
Contracts a leprosy that oversteals
Its senses, like a palsy, chill, and fast.

POEM.

The soul must be in health to keep its powers. "
It must lie open to the iuilucnces
Of all thinj^s pure anil simple. Like a flower
Within a stifled chamber, it will droop
If hidden from the pleasant sun and air ;
And every delicate fibre must have rooai ■
To quicken and extend, and more than all,
The stream that gives it moisturii Vnusl be pure.

Another lesson with my manhood came.
I have unlearned contempt. It is the sin
That is engender'd earliest in the soul,
And doth beset it like a poison-worm,
Feeding on aU its beauty. As it steals
Into the bosom you niay see the light
Of the clear, heavenly eye grow cold and dim.
And the fine, upright glory of the brow
Cloud with mistrust, and the uhfettcr'd lip.
That was as free and changeful as the wind,
Even in sadness redolent of love,
Curl'd with the iciness of a constant scorn.
It eats into the mind till it pollutes
All its pure fountains. Feeling, reason, taste
Breathe of its chill corruption. Every sense
That could convey a pleasure is Ijcnumb'd,
And the bright human being, that was made

POEM.

Full of ull warm afreclioiiH, junl with |H)Wcr *
To Itjok throiif^h all things lov«'ly up to GchI,
Is changed into a cold and doubting fiend,
With but one uae for reason— /o despise !

Oh if there is one law al)ove the rest
Written in wisdom—if there is a word
Tiiat I would trace as with a pen of fire
Upon the unsunn'd tcmiJcr of a child—
If there is any thing that kec[)s the mind
Open to angel visits, and repels
The ministry of ill-£tis human love ! J
God has made nothing worthy of contempt.
The smallest pebble in the well of truth
Has its peculiar meaning, and will stand
When man's best monuments have passed away.
The law of Heaven is love and though its name ;
Has been usurp'd by passion, and profaned
To its unholy uses through all time,
Still, the eternal principle is pure;
And in these deep affections that we feel
Omnipotent within us, we but see
The lavish measure in which love is given,
And in the yearning tenderness of a child
For every bird that sings above his head.
And every creatine feeding on the hills,

.■ < fe < i»^i * t* -

pf''

P K M .

And every tree, and flower, and running brook,
Wo see how every thing was made to love,
And how they err, who, in a world like this,
Find any tiling to hate but human pride !

Oh, if we are not bitterly deceived—
If this familiar spirit that communes
With yours this hour-that has the i^owcr to search
All things but its own compass— is a spark
Struck from the burning essence of its God—
If, as we dream, in every radiant star
We see a shining gate through which the soul,
In its degrees of being, will ascend—
If, when these weary organs drop away.
We shall forget their uses, and comnume
With angels and each other, as the stars
Mingle their hght, in silence and in lovo—
What is this ileshly fetter of a day
That we should bind it with immortal dowers!
How do we ever gaze u})on the sky.
And watch the lark soar up till he is lost.
And turn to our poor perishing dreams away,
Without one tear for our imprisoned wings !

THE DYING ALCHYMIST.

The night-wind with a desolate moan swei)t by,
And the old Bhiitters of the turret swung
Screaming ui^n their hinges, and the moon,
As the torn edges of the clouds Hew 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 shnmk back
Upon his iMillet, and with unclosed \\\)s

:'PJ:^-

'^i

^ IE J»»«f« AUnVMiHT,

Mutteiti^ fl curse on lU "^th ? Tlic silo^il. room
Frorn i's dim corners mt-jckinffly ffavo Ixick
Hw rattkiiiyr ])roath ; Uic hmimung in the firo
Had ihfi »iist,inctn<'ss of a knell, and when
Duly tho AHil|i/(/ horoh i','o bent one,
He tlrcw a phial tn m beneath hia heail,
And drank. And instantly his lips eonipresHCil,
And with a Hhudder in his Hkoleton frame,
Ho rose with sui)crnatinal strength, and sat
Upright, and coniiniined with himself; —

I did not think to die
Till I had finished what 1 had to do;
I thought to pierce tli' eternal secret through

With this my mortal eye;
r felt — Oh Go(f!^ it seemcth even novv
This cannot be the death-dew on my brow.

And yet it is — 1 feel
Of this dull sickness at my heart afraid ;
And in rny eyes the death-sparks Hash and fade ;

And something seems to steal
Over my bosom like a frozen hand.
Binding it-- pulses \\'\\h an icy band.

,ft(,ii^,ra|M^l(*(i**WS*'

TIIK nVINO ALniYMIflT.

Ami tluH in (lontli! Hut why
Feci I this wild tDcoil? It mnnot bo
Th' iniiuorlJil spirit bhiiddercth to be free!

Would it not kn[) to lly,
Like a chaiiuMl caglot ut \t^ paront'n rail {
I fear— 1 fenr that thin p(X)r hie is uU !

Yrt thus to [KISS away ! —
To hvo but for a ho|)c that mocks at last-
To agonize, to strive, to watcli, to fast,

To waste the light of day,
Night's better beauty, feeling, fancy, thought.
All that wc have and are—for tliis— for nought!

Gnmt me another year,
G(k1 of m) spirit ! — but a day— to win
Something to satisfy this thirst within!

I would know something here!
Break for me but one seal that is imbrokcn !
Speak for mo but one word that is unsiwken !

Vain — vain !— ray brain is turning
With a swift dizziness, and my htuut grows sick,
And these hot tcmple-lluobs come fast and tliick.

THE DYINO AT^CllYMTST.

And I am freezing— burning—
Dvingl OhGodl ifl might onlyjivc!-

My phial ^Ha! it thrills me-I revive.

******
j^y__vrere not man to die
He were too glorious 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 Uanscend his power .

Earth has no mineral strange—
Th' illimitable air no liidden wings-
Water no quality in its covert springs,

And fire no power to change-
Seasons no mystery, and stars no speU,
Which the unwasting soul might not compel.

Oh, but for time to track
The upper stars into the pathless sky-
To see th' invisible spirits, eye to eye-
To hurl the lightning back-
To tread unhurt the sea's dim-lighted halls-
To chase Day's chaiiot to the horizon walls-

THE DYING ALCHYMIST.

And more, much more — for now
The hfe-sealed fountains of my nature move —
To nurse and purify this liuman love —

To clear the god-like Ijrow
Of weakness and mistrust, and bow it down,
Worthy and beautiful, to the much-loved one —

This were indeed to feel
The soul-thirst slaken at the living stream —
To live — Oh God ! that hfe is but a dream!

And death Aha ! I reel-*-

Dim — dim — I faint — darkness comes o'er my eye-
Cover rae! save me! Gofl 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 OP 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 shutters swung
Screaming as harshly in the fitful wind.

THE DYING ALCHYMIST.

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 smaU silver 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 wiU.

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. He was born
Taller than he might walk beneath the stars,
And with a spirit tempered like a god's,
He was sent blindfold on a path of light,
And turn'd aside and perished ! Oh how poor
Seems the rich gift of genius, when it lies.
Like the adventurous bird that hath out-flown
His strength upon the sea, ambition-wrecked—
A thing the thrush might pity, as she sits
Brooding in quiet on her lowly nest.

i; I*

THE LEPER.

" Room for the leper ! Room ! " And as he came

The cry passed on — " Room for the leper! Room!"

Sunrise was slanting on the city gates

Rosy and beautiful, and from the hills

The early risen poor were coming in

Duly and cheerfully to their toil, and up

Rose the sharp hammer's clink, and the far hum

Of moving wheels and multitudes astir,

And all that in a city murmur swells,

Unheard Imt by the watcher's weary ear,

Aching with night's dull silence, or (he sick

Hailing the welcome light, and sounds that chase

The death-like imaged of the dark away.

" Room for the leper!" And aside they stood
Matron, and child, and pitiless manhootl— all

. I

THE LEPER.

Who met him on his way— and let him pass.
And onward through the open gate he came,
A leper with the ashes on his brow,
Sackcloth about his loins, and on his lip
A covering, stepping painfully and slow,
And witli a difficult utterance, like one
Whose heart is with an iron nerve put down,
Crying " Unclean !— Unclean ! "

'Twas now the depth
Of the Judean summer, and the leaves
Whose shadows lay so still upon his path,
Had budded on the clear and flashing eye
Of Judah's loftiest noble. He was young,
And eminently beautiful, and life
Mantled in eloquent fulness on his lip.
And sparkled in his glance, and in his mien
There was a gracious pride that every eye
Followed with bcnisons— and this was he!
With the soft airs of Summer there had come
A torpor on his frame, which not the speed
Of his best barb, nor nmsic, nor the blast
Of the bold huntsman's horn, nor aught that stirs
The spirit to its bent, might drive away.
The blood beat not as wont within his veins;
Dimness crept o'er his eye; a drowsy sloth

THE LEPER.

Fettered his limbs like palsy, and his port,
With all its loftiness, seemed struck with eld.
Even his voice was changed — a languid moan
Taking the place of the clear, silver key;
And brain and sense grew faint, as if the light,
And very air, were steeped in sluggishness.
He strove with it awhile, as manhood will,
Ever too proud for weakness, till the rein
Slackened within his grasp, and in its poise
The arrowy jereed like an aspen shook.
Day after day he lay as if in sleep.
His skin grew dry and bloodless,' and white scales
Circled with livid purple, covered him.
And then his nails grew black, and fell away
From the dull flesh about them, and the hues
Dee|)ened beneath the hard unmoistened scales,
And from their edges grew the rank white hair,
— And Helon was a lepei !

Day was breaking^
When at the altar of the temple stood
The holy priest of God. The incense lamp
Burned with a struggling light, and a low chant
Swelled through the hollow arches of the roof
liike an articulate wail, and there, alone.
Wasted to ghastly thinness, Helon knelt.

THE LEPER.

The echoes of the melancholy strain

Died in the distant aisles, and he rose up,

Struggling with weakness, and bowed down his head

Unto the sprinkled ashes, and put off

His costly raiment for the leper's garb.

And with the sackcloth round him, and his lip

Hid in a loathsome covering, stood still

Waiting to hear his doom: —

Depart! depart, O child
Of Israel, from the temple of thy Gotl,
For He has smote thfee with his chastening rod,

And to the desert wild
From all thou lov'st away thy feet must flee.
That from thy plague His people may be free.

Depart! and come not near
The busy mart, the crowded city, more;
Nor set thy foot a human threshold o"er:

And stay thou not to hear
Voices that call thee in the way; and fly
From all who in the wilderness pass by.

Wet not thy burning lip
In streams that to a human dwelling glide;
Nor rest thee where the covert fountains hide,

THE LEPER.

Nor kneel thee down to dip
The water where the pilgrim bends to drink,
By desert well, or river's grassy brink.

And pass thou not between
The weary traveller and the cooling breeze.
And he not down to sleep beneath the tree^

Where human tracks are seen;
Nor milk the goat that browseth on the plain,
Nor pluck the standing corn, or yellow grain.

And now depart ! and when
Thy heart is heavy, and thine eyes are dim.
Lift up thy prayer beseechingly to Him

Who, from the tribes of men.
Selected thee to feel his chastening rod —
Depart! O leper! and forget not God 1

And he went forth — alone ! not one of all
The many whom he loved, nor she whose name
Was woven in the fibres of the heart
Breaking within him now, to come and speak
Comfort unto him. Yea— he went his way,
Sick and heart-broken, and alone — to die! —
For God had cursed the leper!

THE LEPER.

It was noon,
And Helon knelt beside a stagnant pool
In the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow,
Hot with the burning leprosy, and touched
The loathsome water to his fevered lips.
Praying that he might be so blest — to die!
FootsteiM approached, and with no strength to flee,
He drew the covering closer on his lip.
Crying " Unclean! Unclean !" and in the folds
Of the coarse sackcloth shrouding up his face,
He fell upon the earth till they should pass.
Nearer the stranger came, and bending o'er
The leper's prostrate form, pronounced his name.
"Helon!" — the voice was Hke the master-tone
Of a rich instrimient— most strangely sweet;
And the dull pulses of disease awoke,
And for a moment beat beneath the hot
And leprous scales with a restoring thrill.
" Helon! arise!" and he forgot his curse,
And rose and stood before him.

Love and awe
Mingled in the regard of Helon's eye
As he beheld the stranger. He was not
In costly raiment clad, nor on his brow
The symbol of a princely lineage wore;

THE LCPER.

No followers at his back, nor in his hand
Buckler, or sword, or speor — yet in his mien
Command sat throned serene, and if he smiled,
A kingly condoHceusion "graced his lips,
The lion would have croucluMl to iu his lair.
His garb was simple, and his sandids worn;
His stature modcjled with a ptufect grace ;
His countenance, the impress of a Go<l,
Touched with the open innocence of a child;
His eye was l)luc and calm, as is the sky
In the serenest noon ; his hair unshorn
Fell to his shoulders; and his curling beard
The fulness of perfected manhood bore.
He looked on Helon earnestly awhile.
As if his heart was moved, and stooping down
He took a little water in his hand
And laid it on his brow, and said, " Be clean!"
And lo! the scales fell from him, and liis blood
Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins,
And his dry palms grew moist, and on his brow
The dewy softness of an infant's stole.
His leprosy was cleansed, and he fell down
Prostrate at Jesus' feet, and worshipped him.

PARRIIASIUS.

.. Parrhasi««, a painter of Athene, a.n..nRHttho.o Olyntlnan captives Phili,,
of Macclon brought h.,....- to sell, bou.l.t o,.o very ol.l man ; and wl.c-a 1.0
haai.im a. 1... l.ous., ,mt lu.n .o.lca.l. with cx.ron.o torture and torment,
„.„ ,H.U..r, by l.i. oxauM-lo. ... expr.-s. the pain, and passion, of Ins Prome-
tbeu., whom ho was then about to painU"-Bur«on'. Anat. of Mel.

TiiEUE stoofl an unsold cnptivo in the mart,
A grny-lmirod and niaje?tical old man,
Chained to a pillar. It was almost ni<?ht.
And the last seller from hw plate had gone.
And not a sound was heard but of a dog
Crunching l)en(;ath the stall a refuse bone,
Or the dull echo from the pavement rung
As the faint captive changed his weary feet.
He had stood there since morning, and had borne
From every eye in Athens the cold gaze
Of curious"sairn. The Jew had taunted him
For an OU nthian slave. The buyer came
And roughly struck his pabn upon liis breast.

I'AHllIIAHrUS.

And touched his unhealed wounds, and with a sneer

Passed on, and when, with weariness o'ersjMjnt,

He bowed hin liead in a forgctCul sleep,

Th' inhuman soldier sniote him, and with threats

Of torture to his children summoned hack

Tlio ebbing blood into his pallid face.

Twas evening, and the half descended sun

Tipped with a golden lire the many domes

Of Athens, and a yijllow atmosphere

Lay rich and dusky in the shaded street

Througli which the captive gazed. He had borne up

With a stout heart that long and weary day,

Haughtily patient of liis many wrongs.

But now he was alone, and from his nerves

The needless strength departed, and he leaned

Prone on his massy chain, and let his thoughts

Throng on him as they would. Unmarked of him,

Parrliasius at tlie nearest pillar stood,

Gazing upon his grief. Th' Athenian's check

Flushed as he measured with a painter's eye

The moving picture. The abandon'd limbs,

Stained with the oozing blood, were laced with veins

Swollen to purple fulness; the gray hair.

Thin and disordered, hung about his eyes.

And aa a thought of wilder bitterness

PARRIIA8IU8.

Rose in lus memory, his lips grew white,
Ami the fust workings of his bloiHllcss face
Tolil what a tooth of fire was at his heart.

The golden light into the painter's room
Streamed richly, and the hidden colors stole
From the dark pictures radiantly forth.
And in the soft and dewy atmosphere
Like forms and landscaix^d magical they lay.
The walls were hung with armor, and about
In the dim corners stood the sculptured forms
Of Cytheris, and Dian, and stern Jove,
And from the casement solierly away
Fell the grotesque long shadows, full and true,
And, like a veil of filmy mellowness.
The Unt-specks floated in the twilight air.

Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully
Upn his canvass. There Prometheus lay,
Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus,
The vulture at his viUils, and the links
Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh,
And as the iminter's mind felt through the dim.
Rapt mystery, and plucked the shadows wild
Forth with its reaching fancy, and with form
And color clod them, liis fine, earnest eye.

PARRHASIUB.

Flaahcd with a passionati? fire, and the quick curl

Of liis thin nontril, and his (juivoring hp

Were like the winjjed God'd. breathing from liia llight.

" Bring me the captive now!
My Iiand feels skilful, and the shadows Uft
From my waked spiri' airily and swift,

And I could paint the bow
Upon the Ijcndcd heavens — around me play
Colors of such divinity to-day.

Ha ! bind him on his back!
Ijook ! as Prometheus in my picture here —
Q,uick — or he faints! — stand with the cordial near!

Now — bend him to the rack !
Press down the poison'd links into his llesh !
And tear agape that healing wound afresh !

So — let him writhe! How long
Will he live thus? Quick, my good {)encil, now!
What a fine agony works upon his brow !

Ha! gray -haired, and so strong!
How fearfully he stilles that short moan !
Gods! if I could but paint a dyhig groan !

PAttRHASItlS.

« Pity" thee! Soldo!
I pity the dumb victim at the altar —
But docs the robed priest for his pity falter?

I'd rack thee though 1 knew
A thousand lives were jxjrishing in thine —
What were ten thousand to a fame like mine?

" Hereafter I " Ay — hereafter t
A whip to keep a coward to his track !
What gave Death ever from his kingdom back

To check the sceptic's laughter/
Come from the grave to-morrow with that story^
And I may take some softer path to glory.

No, no, old man ! we die
Ev'ii as the flowers, and we shall breathe away
Our hfe upon the chance wind, ev'n as they —

Strain well thy fainting eye —
For when i hat bloodshot (juivering is o'er,
The light of heaven will never reach thee more.

Yet there's a deathless name !
A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn,
And like a steatlfast planet mount and burn —

PARRHASIUS.

And though its crown of flame
Consumed my brain to ashes as it won me —
By all the fiery stars! I'd pluck it on me!

Ay — though it bid me rifle
My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst —
Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first-

Though it should bid me stifle
The yearning in my throat for my sweet child,
And taunt its mother till my brain went wild —

» s)

(

All — I would do it all —
Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot —
Thrust foully into the earth to be forgot —

Oh Heavens — but I appal

Your heart, old man! forgive ha! on your lives

Let him not faint! — rack him till he revives!

Vain— vain — give o'er. His eye
Glazes apace. He does not feel you now —
Stand back ! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow !

Gods ! if he do not die
But for one moment — one — till I eclipse
Oonception with the scorn of those calm lips !

PARRHASIUS.

Shivering! Hark! he mutters
Brokenly now— that was a difficult breath—
Another? Wilt thou never come, oh, Death!

Look! how his temple flutters!
Is his heart stiU 1 Aha ! lift up his head !
He shudders-gasps- Jove help him-so-he's dead »

How Uke a mountain devil in the heart

Rules the unreined ambition! Let it once

But play the monarch, and its haughty brow

Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought

And unthrones peace forever. Putting on

The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns

The heart to ashes, and with not a spring

Left in the desert for the spirit's lip,

"We look upon our splendor and forget

The thirst of which we perish ! Yet hath life

Many a falser idol. There are hopes

Promisuig well, and love-touch'd dreams for some,

And passions, many a wild one, and fair schemes

For gold and pleasure— yet will only this

Balk not the soul— Ambition only gives

Even of bitterness a beaker /wZZ .'

Friendship is but a slow-awaking dream,

Broken at best— Love is a lamp unseen

Burning tx) waste, or if its light is found.

■*!

PARRHASIUS. 41

Nursed for an idle hour, then idly broken —

Gain is a grovelling care, and Folly tires, »

And Quiet is a hunger never fed —

And from Love's very bosom, and from Gain

Or Folly, or a Friend, or from Repose—

From all but keen Ambition, will the soul

Snatch the first moment of forgetfulness

To wander like a restless child away.

Oh, if there were not better hopes than these —

Were there no pahn beyond a feverish fame —

If the proud wealth flung back upon the heart

Must canker in its coffers— if the links

Treachery-broken, will unite no more —

If the deep-yearning love that hath not found

Its like in the cold world must waste in tears

If truth and fervor and devotedness

Finding no worthy altar, must return

And die with their own fuhiess— if beyond

The grave there is no Heaven in whose wide air

The spirit may find room, and in the love

Of whose bright habitants the lavish heart

May spend itself--w;^a^ thrice-mocked fods arc we!

THE WIFE'S APPEAL,

He sat and read. A book with golden clasps,

Printed in Florence, lettered as with jet

Set upon pearl lay raised upon a frame

Before him. 'Twas a volume of old time;

And in it were fine mysteries of the stars

Solved with a canning wisdom, and strange thoughts,

Half prophecy, half poetry, and dreams

Clearer than truth and speculations wild

That touched the secrets of your very soul,

They were so based on Nature. With a face

Olowing with thought, he pored upon the lx)ok.

The cushions of an Indian loom lay soft

Beneath his hmbs, and, as he turned the page,

The sunlight, streaming through the curtain's fold,

Fell on his jewelled fingers tinct with rose,

And the rich woods of the quaint furniture

THK WIFKS APPKAL.

Lay deeiiening their veined colors in the sun,

And the stained nmrblea on their pedestals

Stoal like a silent company — Voltaire,

With on infernal sneer u|x>n his lips,

And Socrates, with godlike human love

Stamped on his countenance, and orators

Of times gone by that made them, and old bards,

And Medicean Venus, half divine.

Around the room were shelves of dainty lore.

And rich old pictures hung upon the walls

Where the slant hght fell on them, and cased gems.

Medallions, rare mosaics, and antiques

From Herculaneum the niches filled.

And on a table of enamel, wrought

With a lost art in Italy, there lay

Prints of fair women, and engravings (jueer,

And a new poem, and a costly toy.

And in then- midst a massive lamp of bronzci

Burning sweet spices constantly. Asleep

Upon the carpet couched a graceful hound

Of a rare breed, and as his master gave

A murmur of dehght at some sweet Une,

He raised his slender head, and kept his eye

Upon him till the pleasant smile had passed

From his mild lips, and then he slept again.

fci

THE wipe's appeal.

The light beyond the crimson folds grew dusk,
And the clear letters of the pleasant book
Mingled and blurred, and the lithe hound rose up,
And with his earnest eye upon the door.
Listened attentively. It came as wont —
Tlie fall of a light foot upon the stair—
And the fond animal sprang out to meet
His mistress, and caress tlie ungloved hand
He seemed to know was beautiful. She stooped
Gracefully down and touched his silken ears
As she passed in— then, with a tenderness,
Half playful and half serious, she knelt
Upon the ottoman, and pressed her iipa
Upon her husband's forehead.

She rose and put the curtain folds aside
From the high window, and looked out upon
The shining stars in silence. " Look they not
Like Paradises to thine eye," he said —
But as he spoke a tear fell through the hght.
And starting from his seat he folded her
Close to his heart, and with unsteady voice
Asked if she was not happy. A faint smile
Broke through her tears; and pushing off the hair
From his fine forehead, she held back his heaxl

THE wipe's appeal.

With her white hand, and gazing on his face
Gave to her heart free utterance: —

Happy?— yes, dearest— blest
Beyond the limit of my wildest dream-
Too bright, indeed, my blessings ever seem;

There lives not in my breast
One of Hope's promises by Love unkept,
And yet— forgive me, Ernest— I have wept.

How shall I speak of sadness,
And seem not thankless to my God and theo?
How can the lightest wish but seem to be

The very whim of madness?
Yet, oh, there is a boon thy love beside—
And I will ask it of thee— in my pride!

List, while my boldness Hngers!
If thou hadst won yon twinkling star to hear thee—
If thou couldst bid the rainbow's curve bend nearthee—

If thou couldst charm thy fingers
To weave for thee the Sunset's tent of gold—
Wouldst in thine own heart treasure it untold?

ill

It'll

(1 ,.

H'y

THK wife's APIMCAL.

If thou hadst Ariel's gift,
To course the veined metals of the earth —
If thou couldst wind a fountain to its birth—

If thou couldst know the drift
Of the lost cloud that sailed into the sky—
Wouidst keep it for thine own unanswered eye'.*

It is thy life and mire! —
Thou in thyself, and I in thee, misprison
Gifts like a circle of bright stars unrisen—

For thou, whose minil should shine
Eminent as a planet's light, art here —
Moved with the starting of a woman's tear!

I have told o'er thy powers
In secret, as a miser tells his gold.
I know thy spirit calm, and true, and Ijold —

I've watched thy lightest hours,
And seen thee, in the wildest flush of youth,
Touch'd with the instinct ravishment of truth.

Thou hast the secret strange
To read that hidden b(K)k, the human heart—
Thou hast the ready writer's practised art—

TIIK wipe's appeal.

Thou hast the thought to range
The broadest circles Intellect hath ran —
And thou art G'xl's best work— an honest man !

And yet. — thou slumberest here
fiike a caged bird that never knew its pinions,
And others track in glory the dominions

Where thou hast not thy peer —
Setting their weaker eyes unto the sun,
And plucking honor that thou shouldst have won.

Oh, if thou lov'dst me ever,
Ernest, my husband ! If th' idolatry
That lets go heaven to fling its all on thee —

If to dismiss thee never
In dream or prayer, have given me aught to claim-
Heed me — oh, heed me! and awake to Fame!

J: I

i :

Her lips
Closed with an earnest sweetness, and she sat
Gazing into his eyes as if her look
Searched their dark orbs for answer. The warm blootl
Into liis temples mounted, and across
His countenance the flush of passionate thoughts
Passed with irresolute quickness. He rose up
And paced the dim room rapidly awhile,

THE wipe's appeal.

Calming his troublal mind, and then he came
And laid his hand upon her forehead white,
And in a voice of heavenly tenderness
Answered her :

Before I knew thee, Mary,
Ambition was my angel. I did hear
Forever its witched voices in mine ear —

My days were visionary,
My nights were Uke the slumbers of the mad.
And every dream swept o'er me glory-clad.

I read the burning letters
Of warlike pomp, on History's page, alone —
I counted nothing the struck widow's moan —

I heard no clank of fetters —
I only felt the trumpet's stirring blast,
And lean-eyed Famine stalked unchallenged past.

I heard, with veins of lightning,
The utterance of the Statesman's word of power —
Binding and loosing nations in an hour —

But while my eye was brightening,
A masked detraction breathed upon his fame,
And a cursed serpent slimed his written name.

THE wife's appeal.

The Poet rapt mine cars
With tlin tifinsporting music that lie sung.
With fibres from his life his lyre he strung-,

And bathed the workl in tears —
And then he turned away to muse apart,
And Scorn stole after him and broke his hetut!

Yet here and there I saw
One who did set the world at calm defiance,
And press right onward with a bold rehance;

And he did seem to awe
The very Shadows pressing on his breast,
And, with a strong heart, held himself at rest.

And then I looked again,
And he had shut the door upon the crowd.
And on his face he lay and grooned aloud—

WrestUng with hidden pain;
And in her chamber sat his wife in tears
And his sweet babes grew sad with whispered fears.

And so I turned sick-hearted
From the bright cup away, and in my sadness
Searched mine own bosom for some spring of gladness •

And lo ! a fountain started

fi;

THE WIFEH APPEAL.

Whose waters cv'n in ilcalh How calin and fast,
Ami luy wild fevci-thiitit was slaked at la.st.

And then I met thee, Mary,
And felt how love may into fulnesH pur,
Like light into a fountain rtmning o'er;

And 1 did hope to vary
My life but with surprises sweet as this —
A dream, but for thy waking, filled with bliss.

Yet now I feci my spirit
Bitterly stirred, and— nay, lift up thy ])row !
It is thine own voice echoing to thee now.

And thou didst pray to hear it —
I must unto my work and my stern hours !
Take from my room thy harp, and books, and flowers!

***** A year —
And in his room again he sat alone.
His frame had lont its fulness in that time;
His handsome features had grown sharp and thin,
And from his lips the constant smile had faded.
Wild fires had burned tlu5 languor from his eye:
The lids looked fevered, and the brows were bent
With an habitual frown. He was much changed.
His chin was resting on his clenched hand,

TiiK wife'w ai»pi:al.

And witli hin foot he beat upon the IIcmh-
Unconsciously the time of ji siul tune.
Thou^^hts) oCthe piist preyed on him hitterly.
He had won power .ind held U. Uc had u.'dked
Steadily upward in the eye of Futnc,
And kept his (ruth unsullied— hut his homo
Had heen invaded hy envenomed tons-ues;
His wife— his spotless wifo-had been assjdled
By sland(M-, and his child had jrrown afraid
To come to him— his manners were so stern.
He could not sp(!ak beside his own hearth freely.
His friends were half estranged, and vulgar men
Presumed upon their services and grew
t'amiliar with him. He'd small time to sleep,
And none to pray; and, with his heart in fetters,
He bore deep in«ults silently, and bowed
Resi)ectfully to men who knew he loathed them!
And when his heart was elotjuent with truth,
And love of country and an hone ' ,1
Burned for oxpressiou, he could find no words
They would not misinterpret with their hes.
What were his many honors to him now?
The gootl half doubted, falsehood was so strong—
His home was hateful with its cautious fears—
His wife lay trembling on his very breast
Frighted with calumny! And this is FAME.

? J

THE SCHOLAR OF THEBET BEN CHORAT.*

Influentia coeli morbum hunc movet, interdum omnibus aliis amotis.'

Mtlanethon d« onimo, cop. dt fcumoriiu*

Night in Arabia. An hour agone
Pale Dian had descended from the sky,
Flinging her cestus out upon the sea,
And at their watches now the solemn stars
Stood vigilant and lone, and, dead asleep,
With not a shadow moving on its breast,
The breathing Earth lay in its silver dew.
And, trembling on their myriad viewless wings,
Th' imprisoned odors left the flowers to dream
And stole away upon the yielding air.

* A famous Arabian astrologer, who is said to have spent forty years in dis-
covering the motion of the eighth sphere. He had a scholar, a young Bedouin
Arab, who, with a singular passion for knowledge, abandoned his wandering
tribe, and, applying himself too closely to astrology, lost his reason, and died.

THE SCHOLAR OP THEBET BEN CHORAT. 53

i i I

Ben Chorat's tower stands shadowy and tall

In Mecca's loneliest street; and ever there,

When night is at the deepest, burns his lamp

As constant as the Cynosure, and forth

From his looped window stretch the brazen tubes,

Pointing forever at the central star

Of that dim nebula just lifting now

Over Mount Arafat. The sky to-night

Is of a clearer blackness than is wont,

And far within its depths the colored stars*

Sparkle like gems — capricious Antarest

Flushing and paling in the Southern arch,

And azure Lyra, like a woman's eye,

Burning with soft blue lustre, and away

Over the desert the bright Polar-star,

White as a flashing icicle, and here.

'? f J

IS-

lin

* Even to the naked eye, the stars appear of palpably different colors ; but
when viewed, with a prismatic glass, they may be very accurately classed
into the red, the yellow, the brilhant white, the dull white, and the anoma-
lous. This is true also of the planets, which shine by reflected light, and of
course the difference of color must he supiwscd to arise from their different
powers to absorb and reflect the rays of the sun. The original composition of
the stars, and the different dispersive powers of their different atmosphere .,
may be supposed to account also for this phenomenon.

t This star exhibits a peculiar quality— a rapid and beautiful change in tho
color of its light ; every alternate twinkling being of an intense reddish crimson
color, and tho answering one of a brilliant white.

THE SCHOLAR OP TIIEBET BEN CHORAT.

Hung like a lamp above tli' Arabian sea,
Mars with his dusky glow, and, fairer yet,
Mild Sirius* tinct \\ith dewy violet,
Set like a flower upon the breast of Eve;
And in the zenith the sweet Pleiades,!
(Alas! that even a star may pass from heaven
And not be missed!) the linked Pleiades
Undimmed are there, though from the sister band
The fairest has gone down, and South away,
Hirundot with its little company.
And white-browed Vesta, lamping on her path
Lonely and planet-calm, and, all through heaven,
Articulate almost, they troop to-night,
Like unrobed angels in a prophet's tiance.

Ben Chorat knelt before his telescope, II

Gazing with earnest stillness on the stars.

The gray hoirs struggling from his turban folds,

* When seen with a prismatic glass, Sirius shows a largo brush of exceed-
ingly beautiful violet rays.

fTho Pleiades are vertical in Arabia.

t An Arabic constellation placed instead of the Piscis Australia, because
the swallow arrives in Arabia about the time of the heliacal rising of the Fishes.

II An anachronism, the author is aware. The telescope was not invented
for a century or two after the time of Ben Chorat.

sed-

luse
hcs.

Ued

THE SCHOLAR OP THEBET BEN CHORAT.

Played with the entering wind upon his cheeks,

And on his breast his venerable beard

With supernatural whiteness loosely fell.

The black flesh swelled about his sandal thongs,

Tight with his painful posture, and his lean

And withered fingers to his knees were clenched.

And the thin lashes of his straining eye

Lay with unwinking closeness to the lens,

Stiffened with tense up-turning. Hour by hour,

Till the stars melted in the flush of morn.

The old astrologer knelt moveless there,

Ravished past pain with the bewildering spheres,

And, hour by hour, with the same patient thought,

Pored his pale scl" ,r on the characters

Of Chaldee writ. . . his gaze grew dim

With wearines,s, the dark-eyed Arab laid

His head upon the window and looked forth

Upon the heavens awhile, until the dews

And the soft beauty of the silent night

Cooled his flushed eyelids, and then patiently

He turned unto his constant task again.

The sparry glinting of the morning star

Shot through the leaves of a majestic palm

Fringing Mount Arafat, and, as it caught

The eye of the rapt scholar, he arose

And clasped the volume with an eager haste,

-i m

I ..

66 THE SCHOLAR OP THEBET BEN CHORAT.

And as the glorious planet mounted on,
Melting her way into the upper sky,
He breathlessly gazed on her: —

' Star of the silver ray !
Bright as a god, but punctual as a slave —
What spirit the eternal canon gave

That bends thee to thy way?
What is the soul that on thine arrowy light
Is walking earth and heaven in pride to-night?

We know when thou wilt soar
Over the mount — thy change, and place, and time-
'Tis written in the Chaldee's mystic rhyme

As 'twere a priceless lore !
I knew as much in my Bedouin garb —
Coursing the desert on my flying barb?

How oft amid the tents
Upon Sahara's sands I've walked alone.
Waiting all night for thee, resplendent one!

With what magnificence.
In the last watches, to my thirsting eye.
Thy passionate beauty flushed into the sky !

•*tl

THE SCHOLAR O? THEBET BEN CHORAT. &7

Oh, God ! how flew my soul
Out to thy glory— upward on thy ray-
Panting as thou ascendest on thy way

As if thine own control

This searchless spirit that I cannot find-
Had set its radiant law upon my mind !

More than all stars in heaven
I felt thee in my heart! my love became
A trenzy, and consumed me with its flame.

Ay— in the desert even—
My dark eyed Abra coursing at my side,
The star, not Abra, was my spirit's bride!

My Abra is no more !
My ' desert-bird' is in a stranger's stall—
My tribe, my tent-I sacrificed them all

For this heart-wasting lore!—
Yet than aU these the thought is sweeter far-
Thou wen ascendant at my birih, bright star!

The Chaldee calls me thine--
And in this breast, that I must rend to be
A spirit upon wings of hght like thee,

58 THE SCHOLAR OP THEBET BEN CHORAT.

I feel that thou art mine!
Oh, God ! that these dull fetters would give way
And let me forth to track thy silver ray !'

* * • • Ben Chorat rose

And silently looked forth upon the East.

The dawn was steahng up into the sky

On its gray feet, the stars grew dim apace,

And faded, till the Morning Star alone,

Soft as a molten diamond's liquid fire,

Burned in the heavens. The morn grew freshlier —

The upper clouds were faintly touched with gold.

The fan-palms rustled in the early air.

Daylight spread cool and broadly to the hills,

And still the star was visible, and still

The young Bedouin with a straining eye

Drank its departing light into his soul.

It faded — melted — and the fiery rim

Of the clear sun came up, and painfully

The passionate scholar pressed upon his eyes

His dusky fingers, and with limbs as weak

As a sick child's, turned fainting to his couch,

And slept. # • * * *

* * It was the morning watch once more.
The clouds were drifting rapidly above,

THE SCHOLAR OP THEBET BEN CHORAT.

And dim and fast the glimmering stara flew through,

And as the fitful gust soughed mournfuUy,

The shutters shook, and on the sloping roof

Plashed heavUy large, single drops of rain

And all was still again. Ben Chorat sat

By the dim lamp, and, while his scholar slept,

Pored on the Ohaldee wisdom. At his feet, '

Stretched on a pallet, lay the Arab boy

Muttering fast in his unquiet sleep,

And working his dark fingers in las palms

Convulsively. His sallow lips were pale,

And, as they moved, his teeth showed ghastly through,

Wlnte as a charnel bone, and, closely drawn

Upon his sunken eyes, as if to press

Some frightful image from the bloodshot balls,

His lids a moment quivered, and again

Relaxed, half open, in a calmer sleep.

Ben Chorat gazed upon the dropping sands
Of the departing hour. The last white grain
Fell through, and with the tremulous hand of age
The old astrologer reversed the glass,
And as the voiceless monitor went on.
Wasting and wasting with the precious hour.
He looked upon it with a moving lip,

'♦«;

60 THE SCHOLAR OF THEBET BEN CHORAT.

And starting turned his gaze upon the heavens,
Cursing the clouds impatiently.

' 'Tis time!'
Muttered the djnng scholar, and he dashed
The tangled hair from his black eyes away.
And, seizing on Ben Chorat's mantle folds,
He struggled to his feet, and falling prone
Upon the window ledge, gazed stedfastly
Into the East:

* There is a cloud between —
She sits this instant on the mountain's brow,
And that dusk veil hides all her glory now —

Yet floats she as serene

Into the heavens ! Oh, God ! that even so

I could o'ermount my spirit-cloud, and go!

The cloud begins to drift!
Aha ! Fling open ! 'tis the star — the sky !
Touch me, immortal mother ! and I fly !

Wider I thou cloudy rift !
Let through ! — such glory should have radiant room !
Let through! — a star-child on its light goes home!

THE SCHOLAR OP THEBET DEN CHOHAT. 61

Speak to me, brethren bright!
Ye who are floating in these Hving beams!
Ye who have come to me in starry dreams!

Ye who have winged the light
Of our bright mother with its thoughts of flame—
— (I knew it passed through spirits as it came)—

Tell me! what power have ye?
Wliat are the heights ye reach upon your wings?
What know ye of the myriad wondrous things

I perish but to see?
Are ye thought-rapid?— Can ye fly as far—
As instant as a thought, from star to star?

Where has the Pleiad gone?
Where have all missing stars* found light and home?
Who bids the Stella Mirat go and come?

* ' Missing stars' are often spoken of in the old books of astronomy. Hip-
parchus mentions one that appeared and vanished very suddenly; and in the
beginning of the sixteenth century Kepler discovered a new star near the
heel of the right foot of Serpcntarius, ' so bright and sparkling that it exceeded
any thing he had ever seen before.' He ' took notice that it was every mo-
ment changing into some of the colors of the rainbow, except when it was
near the horizon, when it was generally white.' It disappeared the following
year, and has not been seen since.

t A wonderful star in the neck of the Whale, discovered by Fabricius in
tho fifteenth century. It appears and disappears seven times in six years,
and continues in the greatest lustre for fifteen days together.

m i

63 THE SCHOLAR OP THEHET UKN CllOUAT.

Why sits tho Pole-star lone?
And why, like banded sisters, through the air
Go in bright troops the constellations fair?

Ben Chorat! dost thou mark?
The still ! the star ! By heavtms, the cloud drifts o'er !
Gone— and I live! nay— will my heart beat more?

Look! master! 'tis all dark!
Not a clear speck in heaven! — my eye-balls -^mother!
Breakthrough the clouds once more ! oh, starry mother !

I will lie down ! Yet stay !
The rain beats out the odor from the gums,
And strangely soft to-night the spice-wind comes!

I am a child alway
When it is on my forehead ! Abra sweet !
Would I were in the desert at thy feet!

My barb! my glorious steed !
Methinks my soul would mount upon its track
More fleetly, could I die upon thy back!

How would thy thrilling speed
Quicken my pulse!— Oh, Allah! I get wild!
Would that I were once more a desert-child t

TtTE HCriOLAU OP TIIKHET BEN CIIOllAT. 63

Nay— nay— I had forgot!
My mother! my star-mother !— Ha ! my breath
Stitles ! more air ! Ben Chorat ! this is-death !

Touch me! 1 feel you not!

Dylnrr!_Farewell! good master !-room! more room!
Abra! I— loved thee; star-bright star ! I- come!

How idly of the human heart we sjieak,
Giving it gods of clay ! How worse than vain
Is the school homil)', that Eden's fruit
Cannot be plucked too freely from ' the tree
Of good and evil. ' Wisdom sits alone,
Topmost in heaven;— she is its light—its God !
And in the heart of man she sits as high—
Though grovelling eyes forget her oftentimes,
Seeing but this world's idols. The pure mind
Sees her forever; and in youth we come
FiUed with her sainted ravishment, and kneel,
Worshipping God through her sweet altar-fires,
And then is knowledge ' good.' We come too oft.
The heart grows proud with fubess, and we soon
Look with licentious freedom on the maid
Throned in celestial beauty. There she sits,
Robed iii her soft and seraph loveliness.
Instructing and forgiving, and we gaze
Until desire grows wild, and, with our hands

THE SCIIOLAB OF TIIEMET I3EN CIIORAT.

Upon her

struck ilown,

Blasted

y gni nienls, t

a consuniinj? fire from heaven!
Yet, oh, how full of music from her li|>s
Breathe the calm tonew of wisdom! Human praise
Is Aveet, till envy mars it, and tlu; touch
Of new- won i,,/ld stirs up the pulses well,
And woman's love, if in a beggar's lamp
'Twould burn, might light us chcerly through the world,
But Knowledge hath a far more wildering tongue,
And she will stoop and lead you to the stars,
And witcli you with her mysteries, till gold
Is a forgotten dnws, and power and fame
Toys of an hour, and woman's careless love
Light as the breath that breaks it. He who binds
His soul to knowledge steals the Icey of heaven —
But 'tis a bitter mockery that the fruit
May hang within his reach, and when, with thirst
Wrought to a maddening frenzy, he would taste-
It l)urns his lips to ashes !

THE HEALING OF THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS.

Freshly the cool breath of the comi ig ,)ve
Stole through the lattice, and the dyin^- t-.rl
Felt it upon her forehead. She Imd lain
Since the hot noontide in a breathless trance,
Her thin pale fingers clagp'd within the hand
Of the heart-broken Ruler, and her breast,
Like the dead marble, white and rnotionleL
The shadow of a leaf lay on her lips,
And as it stirr'd with the awakening wind.
The dark lids lifted from her languid eyes,'
And her slight fingers mov'd, and heavily '
She turn'd upon her pillow. He was there-
The same lov'd, tireless watcher, and she look'd
Into his face until her sight grew dim
With the fast-filling tears, and, with a sigh
Of tremulous weakness murmuring his name,

VI I

THE HEALING OF

She gently drew his hand upon her lips,
And kiss'd it as she wept. The old man sunk
Upon his knees, and in the drapery
Of the rich curtains buried up his face —
And when the twilight fell, the silken folds
Stirr'd with his prayer, but the slight hand he held
Had ceas'd its pressure, and he could not hear
In the dead, utter silence, that a breath
Came through her nostrils, and her temples gave
To his nice touch no pulse, and at her mouth
He held the lightest curl that on her neck
Lay with a mocking beauty, and his gaze
Ach'd with its deathly stillness. * * * * *

******* It was night—
And softly o'er the Sea of GalUlee
Danced the breeze-ridden ripples to the shore,
Tipp'd with the silver sparkles of the moon.
The breaking waves play'd low upon the beach
Their constant music, but the air beside
"Was still as starlight, and the Saviour's voice,
In its rich cadences unearthly sweet,
Seem'd like some just born harmony in the air
Wak'd by the power of wisdom. On a rock,
With the broad moonlight falling on hit' brow,
He stood and taught the people. At his feet

THE DAUGHTER GP JAIRUS.

ft?

Lay his small scrip, and pilgrim's scallop-shell,
And staff, for they had waited by the sea
Till he came o'er from Gadarene, and pray'd
For his wont teachings as he came to land.
His hair was parted meekly on his brow,
And the long curls from off his shoulders fell
As he leaned forward earnestly, and still
The same calm cadence, passionless and deep,
And in his looks the same mild majesty,
And in his mien the sadness mix'd with power,
Fill'd them with love and wonder. Suddenly,
As on his words entrancedly they hung,
The crowd divided, and among them stood
Jairus the Ruler. With his flowing robe
Gather'd in haste about his loins, he came.
And fix'd his eyes on Jesus. Closer drew
The twelve disciples to their master's side.
And silently the people shrunk away.
And left the haughty Ruler in the midst
Alone. A moment longer on the face
Of the meek Nazarine he kept his gaze.
And as the twelve look'd on him, by the light
Of the clear moon they saw a glistening tear
Steal to his silver beard, and drawing nigh
Unto the Saviour's feet, he took the hem
Of his coarse mantle, and with trembling hands

THE HEALING OP

Press'd it upon his lips, and murmur'd low,
" Master ! my daughter /" — * # # # #

The same sUvery light

That shone upon the lone rock by the sea,
Slept on the Ruler's lofty capitals
As at the door he stood, and welcom'd in
Jesus and his disciples. All was still.
The echoing vestibule gave back the slide
Of their loose sandals, and the arrov/y beam
Of moonlight slanting to the marble floor
Lay like a spell of silence in the rooms
As Jairus led them on. With hushing steps
He trod the winding stair, but ere he touch'd
The latchet, from within a whisper came,

" Trouble the Master not— for she is dead!"

And his faint hand fell nerveless at his side
And his steps falter'd, and his broken voice
Chok'd in its utterance ;— But a gentle hand
Was laid upon his arm, and in his ear
The Saviour's voice sank thrillingly and low,
" 'S'Ae is not dead — but sleepethP

They pass'd in.
The spice-lamps in the alabaster urns
Burn'd dimly, and the white

I fragrant smoke

THE DAUGHTER OP JAIRUS.

Curl'd indolently on the chamber walls.
The silken curtain slumbered in their folds—
Not ev'n a tassel stirring in the air—
And as the Saviour stood beside the bed
And pray'd inaudibly, the Ruler heard
The quickening division of his breath
As he grew earnest inwardly. There came '
A gradual brightness o'er his calm sad face.
And drawing nearer to the bed, he mov'd
The silken curtain silently apart
And look'd upon the maiden.

Like a form
Of matchless sculpture in her sleep she lay—
The Unen vesture folded on her breast,
And over it her white transparent hands.
The blood stiU rosy in their tapering nails.
A line of pearl ran through her parted lips.
And in her nostrils, spiritually thin,
The breathing curve was mockingly like life,
And round beneath the faintly tinted skin
Ran the light branches of the azure veins—
And on her cheek the jet lash overlay
Matching the arches pencU'd on her brow.
Her hair had been unbound, and falling loose
Upon the pillow, hid her small round ears

DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS.

In curls of glossy blackness, and about
Her polished neck, scarce touching it, they hung
Like airy shadows floating as they slept.
'Twas heavenly beautiful The Saviour rais'd
Her hand from off her bosom, and spread out
The snowy fingers in his palm, arid said
" Maiden! Arise!" — and suddenly a flush
Shot o'er her forehead, and along her lips
And through her cheek the rallied color ran,
And the still outline of her graceful form
Stirr'd in the linen vesture, and she clasp'd
The Saviour's hand, an»l fixing her dark eyes
Full on his beaming countenance — arose !

«%

TO A CITY PIGEON.

Stoop to my window, thou beautiful dove!
Thy daily visits have touch'd my love,
I watch thy coming, and list the note
That stirs so low in thy mellow throat,

And my joy is high
To catch the glance of thy gentle eye.

Why dost thou sit on the heated eaves,

And forsake the wood with its freshen'd leaves ?

Why dost thou haunt the sultry street,

When the paths of the forest are cool and sweet ?

How canst thou bear
This noise of people — this sultry air?

Thou alone of the feather'd race

Dost look unscared on the human face;

TO A CITY PIGEON.

Thou alone, with e, v. uig to flee,

Dost love with man in his haunts to be ;

And the "the gentk- dove"
Has become a name for trust and love.

It is no light chance. Thou art kept apart,
Wisely by Him who has tam'd thy heart,
To stir the love for the bright and fair
That else were seal'd in the crowded air ;

I sometimes dream
Angelic ray? from thy |)ini<)nj! stream.

Come then, ever, when daylight leaves
The page I read, to my burn ?1 • ydves.
And wash thy breast in >he LuUow spout,
And murmur thy low sweet music out,

I hear and see
Lfe^sons of Heaven, sweet bird, in thee !

iflp

«'

ON A PICTURE OF A BEAUTIFUL BOY.

A boy! yet in his eye you trace

The watchfulness of riper years,
And tales are in that serious face
Of feelings early steep'd in tears ;
And in that tranquil gaze
There hngers many a thought unsaid,

Shadows of other days.
Whose hours with shapes of beauty came and fled.

And sometimes it is even so !

The spirit ripens in the germ;
The new-seal'd fountains overflow,

The bright wings tremble in the worm.
The soul detects some passing token,

Some emblem, of a brighter world,
And, with its sheU of clay unbroken.

Its shining pinions are unfurl'd,

ON A PICTURE OF A BEAUTIFUL BOY.

And, like a blessed dream,
Phaiitonis, apparrell'd from the sky,

Athwart its vision gleam.
As if the light of Heaven had touch'd its gifted eye.

'Tis strange how childhootVs simple words

Interpret Nature's mystic book-
How it will listen to the birds.
Or ponder on the running brook,
As if its spirit fed.
And strange that we remember not, .
Who fill its eye, and weave its lot.

How lightly it were led
Back to the home which it has scarce forgot.

ON THE PICTURE OF A "CHILD TIRED OF PLAY."

Tired of play ! Tired of play !
What hast thou done this livelong day?
The birds are silent, and so is the bee;
The sun is creeping up steeple and tree;
The doves have flown to the sheltering eaves,
And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves,
Twilight gathers, and day is done-
How hast thou spent it, beautiful one!

Playing? But what hast thou done beside
To tell thy mother at even tide?
What promise of morn is left unbroken?
What kind word to thy playmate spoken?
Whom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven?
How with thy faults has duty striven?
What hast thou learned by field and hill,

CHILD TIRED OP PLAY.

By greenwood path, and by singing rill?
There will come an eve to a lonjG:er day,
That will find tliee tired — but not ofpiav!
And thou wilt lean, as thou leaitcat now,
With drooping hrnbs and an ac'ihig brow,
And wish the shadows would Jaster creep,
And long to go to thy quiet sleep.

Well were it then if thine aching brow

Were as free from sin Mud shame as now!

Well for thee, if thy !ip wuld tell

A tale like this, of a da^ spent well.

If thine open hanr' Iiath reliev'd distress —

If thy pity hath sprung to wretchedness —

If thou hast forgiven the sort; offence,

And humbled thy heart with penitence —

If Nature's voices have spoken to thee

With their holy meanings elof|uently —

If every creature hath won thy love,

From the creeping worm to the brooding dove.

If never a sad, low-spoken word

Hath plead with thy human heart unheaid—

Then, when the night steals on a; ow,

It will bring relief to thine aching bi ow,

And, with joy and peace at the thought of rest,

Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother'? breast.

, C;:-a

111

■* *w