. SPINGARN A venue , California THE POEMS, SACRED, PASSIONATE, AND HUMOROUS, NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. COMPLETE EDITION. NEW YORK CHARLES E. MERRILL CO. 3331) ft *atred according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by CLARK & MAYNARD, ID the Clerk's Office of the Di.str.ct Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS was born in Portland, Maine, January 20, 1806. His father was the venerable Nathaniel Willis, who in 1816 founded the Boston Re corderthe first religious newspaper ever published. The future poet received an excellent preparatory education, principally at the Boston Latin School, and then entered Yale College, where he graduated in 1827. Previously to this he had written and published anonymously some poems of great merit, chiefly of a religious character, and won a prize of fifty dollars at that time a very liberal one for the best poem, offered by the publishers of one of the annuals. Soon after leaving college, Mr. Willis collected and published his poems in a volume, which attracted no little attention. Some of the pieces in this collection are not unworthy to rank with the productions of the author's matured genius. Mr. Willis's tastes and talents induced him, instead of studying a profession, to devote himself to literature as a pursuit, and soon after his graduation, he assumed the Pfc *Btred according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by CLARK & MAYNARD, ID the Clerk's Office of the Distr.ct Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS was born in Portland, Maine, January 20, 1806. His father was the venerable Nathaniel Willis, who in 1816 founded the Boston Re corderthe first religious newspaper ever published. The future poet received an excellent preparatory education, principally at the Boston Latin School, and then entered Yale College, where he graduated in 1827. Previously to this he had written and published anonymously some poems of great merit, chiefly of a religious character, and won a prize of fifty dollars at that time a very liberal one for the best poem, offered by the publishers of one of the annuals. Soon after leaving college, Mr. Willis collected and published his poems in a volume, which attracted no little attention. Some of the pieces in this collection are not unworthy to rank with the productions of the author's matured genius. Mr. Willis's tastes and talents induced him, instead of studying a profession, to devote himself to literature as a pursuit, and soon after his graduation, he assumed the BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. editorship of the "Legendary," a series of volumes of tales published by S. G-. G-oodrich. He next established, in Boston, the American Monthly Magazine, and rallied around it a circle of talented contributors, whom he inspired with his own ambition and zeal. To the pages of this work he contributed many brilliant papers ; and its Editor's Table, in which he treated of current literary topics, of art, books, and personal experience, was emi nently sparkling and readable. At the expiration of two years, the Magazine was merged into the New York Mirror, the most flourishing literary journal of the day, conducted by G-eorge P. Morris, and Mr. Willis gratified a long-cherished desire by visiting Europe. Hia first im pressions of the Old World, received at the most enjoy able period of life, were communicated to the Mirror in a series of sparkling letters, which met with a prodigious success. Europe had not then " been done to death ;" and dashing sketches of its scenery, its art, its distin guished men and women, as viewed by an ardent and gifted American, young, impressionable, with the keen perceptions of the poet and artist, came upon the public like a series of revelations. The style of these sketches was admirable, and possessed such a fascination that ii was impossible to begin a detached extract without fin- BlOGBAPHICAL SKETCH. 7 Miing the paragraph to the close. Mr. Willis was well received abroad, and enjoyed facilities which gave him the entree of the highest and best circles of society on the continent and in England. His portraits of prom inent personages of the time, such as Moore, Lady Blessington, D'Israeli, Bulwer, D'Orsay, were graphic and artistic. In European society Mr. Willis well sus tained the reputation of a refined and high-toned Amer ican gentleman, and in certain trying circumstances manifested a chivalrous spirit which did him the high est honor. While residing in England, in 1835, Mr. Willis mar ried Mary Leighton Stace, a daughter of Commissary General William Stace, commander of the Royal Arsenal at Woolwich, an officer who had seen much service, and greatly distinguished himself at Waterloo. Returning to this country, Mr. Willis purchased a small farm in the valley of the Susquehanna, where he built a pretty cottage, in which he hoped to pass tht remainder of his days in rural and literary employment His "Letters from Under a Bridge," written from " Glen mary," contain some of the most beautiful and truthful pictures of American country life ever penned. Witi a felicity which only belongs to high art, he wove out BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. editorship of the "Legendary," a series of volumes of tales published by S. G-. Groodrich. He next established, in Boston, the American Monthly Magazine, and rallied around it a circle of talented contributors, whom he inspired with his own ambition and zeal. To the pages of this work he contributed many brilliant papers ; and its Editor's Table, in which he treated of current literary topics, of art, books, and personal experience, was emi nently sparkling and readable. At the expiration of two years, the Magazine was merged into the New York Mirror, the most flourishing literary journal of the day, conducted by Greorge P. Morris, and Mr. Willis gratified a long-cherished desire by visiting Europe. His first im pressions of the Old World, received at the most enjoy able period of life, were communicated to the Mirror in a series of sparkling letters, which met with a prodigious success. Europe had not then "been done to death;" and dashing sketches of its scenery, its art, its distin guished men and women, as viewed by an ardent and gifted American, young, impressionable, with the keen perceptions of the poet and artist, came upon the public like a series of revelations. The style of these sketches was admirable, and possessed such a fascination that ir was impossible to begin a detached extract without fin- BlOGBAPHiCAL SKETCH. V ishing the paragraph to the close. Mr. Willis was well received abroad, and enjoyed facilities which gave him the entree of the highest and best circles of society on the continent and in England. His portraits of prom inent personages of the time, such as Moore, Lady Blessington, D'Israeli, Bulwer, D'Orsay, were graphic and artistic. In European society Mr. Willis well sus tained the reputation of a refined and high-toned Amer ican gentleman, and in certain trying circumstances manifested a chivalrous spirit which did him the high est honor. While residing in England, in 1835, Mr. Willis mar ried Mary Leighton Stace, a daughter of Commissary General William Stace, commander of the Royal Arsenal at Woolwich, an officer who had seen much service, and greatly distinguished himself at Waterloo. Returning to this country, Mr. Willis purchased a small farm in the valley of the Susquehanna, where he built a pretty cottage, in which he hoped to pass tht remainder of his days in rural and literary employment His "Letters from Under a Bridge," written from " Glen mary," contain some of the most beautiful and truthful pictures of American country life ever penned. Wit! a felicity which only belongs to high art, he wove out T! BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. of the simplest materials, out of quiet landscapes, and everyday incidents, spells which have entranced readers of all tastes. A daughter, Imogen, was born to Mr. Willis in this sylvan solitude. But trouble came to the inmates of Glenmary. Mrs. Willis's father died Mr. Willis's publishers failed; and it became necessary for the dreamer to forsake the quiet, vale of the Susquehanna, and plunge once more into the battle of life. Removing to New York, he established, in connection with the late Dr. Porter, a literary journal called the Corsair. During a brief visit to Europe, Mr. Willis engaged Mr. Thackeray among his foreign contributors, and while there published a volume of his poetry and prose, under the title of "Loiterings of Travel," two plays, " Bianca Visconti," and " Tortesa the Usurer," the latter of which has proved successful on the stage, and at the same time wrote the letter press for two illustrated works published by George Virtue, descriptive of the scenery of the United States and Ireland. Finding, on his return to America, that Dr. Porter had become discouraged with the Corsair, and aban doned it, he joined his former partner, Q-en. Morris, in a paper called the Evening Mirror. Intense application BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. v soon began to tell upon his health, and the shock occa sioned by the death of his wife completely prostrated him. He again went abroad, but after a brief stay, during which he was attacked by a brain fever, he returned to this country. The Evening Mirror, the daily prepar ation of which was found to be too trying a task both to Mr. Willis and G-en. Morris, was transferred to other hands, and they established the Home Journal, a literary weekly, which from the outset was eminently successful From the date of its commencement, Mr. Willis con centrated all his efforts on this publication, the popu larity of which amply repaid the loving care bestowed upon its columns. In 1846 Mr. Willis married Cornelia, only daughter of Hon. Joseph Q-rinnell, of New Bedford, Mass. Their residence from that time until his decease, was on a charming estate on the banks of the Hudson, above Wet Point, to which he gave the name of "Idlewild." Here he divided his time between his literary and do mestic cares, the culture and the adornment of his estate, and the regimen and exercise which his infirm health demanded, with an occasional visit to New York, to glance at the movements of society and art in that great city, gathering from all his experiences, material for thosa V1U BIOGBAPHICAL SKETCH. charming essays and letters which graced the editor!*! columns of the Home Journal. 4?ew American authors were known to a wider circle of readers than Mr. Willis. He came before the public for the first time at a moment when our literature was passing from the delicate bloom of infancy to the florid and lusty vigor of early youth. Everything was in a state of transition ; everything was unsettled ; but every thing was rich with the glow of dawning promise. Irving was in the fullness of his fame; Bryant had won the vernal honors which have since ripened into glorious maturity; K. H. Dana had struck a chord in many hearts by the mystic strains of his melancholy music; Percival was hailed : by waiting and sanguine spirits as the morning- star of a new poetical day ; Pierpont had gathered bright laurels on the banks where "Hermon sheds its dews," and "decked his couch with Sharon's deathless rose." Everett had returned from his quest of knowledge in distant lands, radiant with enthusiasm and hope; Chan- ning had sent an electric spark into the bosom of society by his seraphic discussion of worldly themes amidst the solemnities of the pulpit ; Lyman Beecher was disturbing the repose of the dry bones in the valley of vision by his athletic sledge-hammer blows on the heresies of BIOGRAPHICAL SKKTCH. IX Boston ; Longfellow was beginning to gather around him a cluster of gracious sympathies by the tender pathos of his imagination and the sweet felicities of hia diction. Mr. Willis first attracted notice from those who wer eagerly watching every sign of promise in our youthful literature, by his scriptural poems. He had been brought up under the robust religious influences of New England orthodoxy; the bracing air of Andover and Park street filled his veins with the ruddy drops of stern conviction ; from the lips of his admirable mother, who was beloved and honored by all who knew her, the lessons of piety distilled upon his heart ; and if, in later life, the early cloud and morning dew left no trace of their influence on the character, they gave an impulse to his poetical nature, and suggested chaste and lovely images to his fancy. His memory was familiar with the language of the Bible. His heart had been touched by its simple grandeur. The domestic scenes of the old Hebrew life kindled his warm est sympathy, and attached themselves to his dearest associations with home. Gifted with the art of clothing those scenes in the splendor of modern verse, without impairing their racy, antique flavor, he threw a charm around his descriptions which fascinated alike the lovers of the Bible and the amateurs of poetry. His success X BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. was perfect. His name became a household word in many families who had learned from his sweet utterances that the sentiment of piety was no foe to the indulgence of the imagination. He was welcomed as a new star in the horizon of American letters. His sense of beauty in outward things was extraordinary. His eye was strongly affected by the harmonies of color and form. In dress, in furniture, in every kind of decoration, he had a lively instinct of the fit and the becoming. If his personal tastes had a tendency towards the fantastic, it was an ex ception to the general soundness of his judgment in aesthetic affairs. Among the traits of Mr. Willis's personal character, which his friends can dwell on with the warmest satisfaction, was the vigorous persistence with which he engaged in the battle of life, in spite of an accumulation of physical infirmities. For many years previous to his death he had enjoyed scarcely an interval of good health. He was often subject not only to the languors of chronic disease, but to the agonies of sharp and sudden attacks. His endurance of pain was like that of a martyr. His suffer ings often furnished him with the theme of his most brilliant essays. He had the rare gift of bringing his private experiences before the public without the appear- BIOGEAPHICAL SKETCH. ance of obtrusive egotism. With the exception of Henry Heine, we hardly know an instance of a man of letters being doomed to such protracted torments from bodily disease. The power with which he bore up under such terrible inflictions presents a rare example of courage and fortitude the genuine elements of heroism. Let those who view him merely as the gay and elegant man about town, the retailer of sparkling bon-mots, and the writer of frivolous superficial humor, remember the days of dark ness which he so bravely encountered, and the dauntless zeal witli which he wrought at his post until his counte nance was changed in the shadow of death. Mr. Willis, moreover, exhibited a certain kindliness and generosity of disposition, which, if it rested on no pro found basis in his nature or his principles, gave an interest to his companionship and secured him the cordial friend ship of men with whose graver and more rigid traits of character he habitually cherished but little sympathy. Hia circle of intimate acquaintance included persons of the widest contrast in opinions, manners, and cultivation. Among them were to be found the popular preacher, the erudite divine, the stern reformer, and men of mark in political life and the world of business. He dispensed the hospitalities of Idlewild a name which his pen has made XU BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. classical with elegance and liberality. His door was open wide even to the casual visitor, and to "the men who sought him he was sweet as summer." Free from the faintest spark of literary jealousy, he took no part in the "quarrels of authors,'' looked with cheerful com placency on the success of his rivals, and always had a friendly word for the youthful aspirants who were strug gling in the lists for distinction in letters. His sympathy with their first timid efforts was often their stepping-stone to renown. He will be remembered, not as a philosopher or a celestial genius ; but as a man eminently human, with almost unique endowments, who contributed his share to the good-will, cheerful enjoyment, and intellectual life of the present Mr. Willis, as stated, was subject, for several of the later years of his life, to severe suffering from disease, the seat of which was chiefly in the brain. His decease occurred on the 20th of January, 1867, at Idlewild, being just sixty-one years of age. His wife and several children sur vive him. COISTTEKTS. SACRED POEMS. MM Tmt HEALING or THK DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS 17 THE Lr.i- K.K . ... 2 . DAVID'S GRIEF FOE HIS CHILD Z1 THK SACRIFICE OF ABRAHAM 82 THE SHUNAMITE 86 JBPHTII AH'S DAUGHTER 40 ABSALOM 44 CHRIST'S ENTRANCE INTO JERUSALEM 48 BAPT;SM OF CHRIST 51 BOKNK IN OETHSEMANR 68 THE WIDOW OF NAIN 56 HAOAR IN THE WILDERNESS 58 KlZl-All WITH HKK SONS, (THE DAT BEFORE THEY WEBB HANOED ON GIBKAH) 68 LAZARUS AND MART 66 ClIUIST BLESSING LITTLE CHILDREN 7C CHRIST'S MOTHKR 78 HANNAH AND SAMUEL. 81 A BIBLF. STORY FOR MOTHERS 86 THOUGHTS WHILE MAKING TUB GRAVE OF A NEW BORN CHILD... 90 ON THE DEPARTURE OF THK REV. MR. WHITE FROM HIS PARISH, WHEN CHOSEN PRESIDENT OF WABASH COLLEGE M UIRTH-DAY Xlr CONTENTS. MM To MY MOTHER FROM THB APENNINES 98 LINES ON LEAVING EUROPE 99 A TBUB INCIDENT 102 THB MOTHER TO HER CHILD 104 A THOUGHT OVER A CRADLE 106 ON A PICTURE OF A GIRL LEADING HER BLIND MOTHER THROUGH THE WOOD 10T CONTEMPLATION 108 ON THE DEATH OF A MISSIONARY 110 ON THE PICTURE OF A " CHILD TIRED OF PLAY" 118 A CHILD'S FIRST IMPRESSION OF A STAR 115 ON WITNESSING A BAPTISM 116 REVERIE AT GLENMARY ill Te A CITY PIGEON 113 THE BELFRY PIGEON 119 SATURDAY AFTERNOON 121 THE SABBATH 122 DEDICATION HYMN , 124 HYMN... 125 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. THE DYING ALCHYMIST 129 P ARRH ASIUS ] 34 THE SCHOLAR OF THEBET BEN KHORAT 140 THE WIFE'S APPEAL 151 MELANIE 160 LORD IVON AND HIS DAUGHTER 177 To ERMENGARDE 195 FRAGMENT OF A POEM, WRITTEN FOR A MOTHER, AFTER THE DEATH OF A BELOVED DAUGHTER 197 BEAUTY AFTER DEATH 198 WAKING DREAM IN SICKNESS 199 UNSEEN SHUTS. 200 CONTENTS. XV MM To CHARLES Boux, OF SWITZERLAND 201 THE CONFESSIONAL. 202 FLORENCE GRAY 206 THE PITY OF THE PARK FOUNTAIN 208 ' CH A M BER SCENE ". 210 To A STOLEN KING 211 To HER WHO HAS HOPES FOR ME. 212 THE DEATH OF HARRISON 214 " SHE WAS NOT THERE " 216 FAIL ME NOT THOU 218 SPIRIT-WHISPERS 219 To M , FROM ABROAD 220 SUNRISE THOUGHTS AT THE CLOSE OF A BALL. 221 To A FACE BELOVED 222 BETTER MOMENTS 228 THE A NNOYER 226 ANDRE'S REQUEST TO WASHINGTON. 228 DAWN 229 EXTRACT FROM A POEM DELIVERED AT THE DEPARTURE OF THE SENIOR CLASS OF TALE COLLEGE IN 1827 280 THE ELMS OF NEW HAVEN 234 THE THOUGHT ANGEL 248 DESPONDENCY IN SPRING 247 To LAURA W , Two TEARS OF AGE 247 To 249 THE TORN HAT 250 ON THE DEATH OF A TOUNG GIRL 252 MAY 263 THE SOLITARY 264 SONNET 256 ACROSTIC SONNET 256 THE SOLDIER'S WIDOW 257 STARLIGHT 253 ON THE DEATH OF EDWARD PAYBON, D. D 259 JANUARY 1, 1828 , 261 JANUARY 1, 1829 262 PSYCHE BEFORE THE TRIBUNAL OF VENUS 268 OK SEEING A BEAUTIFUL BOY AT PLAT... 265 XT1 CONTENTS. PACU Huo 267 IDLINKBS 268 TH BUBIAL or THE CHAMPION or BIS CLASS AT TALK COLLEGE. 271 SPRING 273 THIRTY -MYE 274 KoAi'.i.sG BROOK 276 Aw APOLOGY 277 To HELEN IN A Hurr 278 CITY LYRICS 279 To THE LADY IN THE CHEMISETTE WITH BLACK BUTTONS 281 THE LADY IN THE WHITE DRESS, WHOM I HELPED INTO THE OM NIBUS 288 THE WHITE CHIP HAT 284 Toe KNOW ir IT WAS You 286 LOVE IN A COTTAGE 287 THE DECLARATION 288 POBM DELIVERED AT BROWN UNIVERSITY, SEPT. 6, 1881 2S9 BIRTHDAY IN A FOREIGN ISLE 301 To A BRIDE 302 THE BROKEN BRACELET 808 To A COQUETTE 305 To JULIA GRISI 305 THE TABLE or EMERALD 806 KBYERIEB 808 TEX LADY JAXE 819 SACRED POEMS. XT1 CONTENTS. Huo ........................................................... 267 IDLENESS ..................................................... 268 TH BURIAL or THE CHAMPION or BIS CLASS AT TALK COLLEGE. 271 SPRING ......................................................... 273 THIRTY-MYE .................................................... 274 ROARING BROOK ................................................ 276 AM APOLOGY .................................................... 277 To HELEN IN A Hurr .......................................... 278 CITY LYRICS ......... . ......................................... 279 To THE LADY IN THE CHEMISETTE WITH BLACK BUTTONS ....... 281 THE LADY IN THE WHITE DRESS, WHOM I HELPED INTO THE OM NIBUS ...................................................... 288 TH* WHITE CHIP HAT .......................................... 284 You KNOW ir IT WAS Yon .................................... 286 LOVE IN A COTTAGE ................................ ............ 287 THE DECLARATION ............................................. 288 POEM DELIVERED AT BROWN UNIVERSITY, SEPT. 6, 1831 .......... 289 BlETHDAY IN A FOREIGN ISLE .................................. 301 To A BRIDE .................................................... 302 THE BROKEN BRACELET ......................................... 308 To A COQUETTE ................................................. 305 To JULIA GRISI ............................................ 305 THE TABLE or EMERALD ............................... . ........ 306 KBYBRIEI ...................................................... 808 TBX LADY JAM .......................................... ..... 318 SACRED POEMS. SACRED POEMS. THE HEALING OF THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS, FRESHLY the cool breath of the coming eve Stole through the lattice, and the dying girl Felt it upon her forehead. She had lain Since the hot noontide in a breathless trance Her thin pale fingers clasped within the hand Of the heart-broken Ruler, and her breast, Like the dead marble, white and motionless. 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 moved, and heavily She turned upon her pillow. He was there The same loved, tireless watcher, and she look'd Into his face until her sight grew dim With the fast-falling tears; and, with a sigh Of tremulous weakness murmuring his name, 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 j A.nd when the twilight fell, the silken folds Stirr'd with his prayer, but the slight hand he held Had ceased its pressure and he could not hear, 18 WILLIS'S POEMS. 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 Ached with its deathly stillness. ***** * t wag And, softly, o'er the Sea of Galilee, Danced the breeze-ridden ripples to the shore, Tipp'd with the silver sparkles of the moon. The breaking waves played 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, "Waked by the power of wisdom. On a rock, With the broad moonlight falling on his brow, He stood and taught the people. At his feet 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. TTia hair was parted meekly on his brow, And the long curls from off his shoulders fell, As he lean'd 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- Filled them with love and wonder. Suddenly, WILLIS'S POEMB. if As on his words entrancedly they hung, The crowd divided, and among them stood JAIRUS THE RULER. With his flowing robe Gathered 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 Nazarene he kept his gaze, And, as the twelve looked 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 Press'd it upon his lids, and murmur'd low, " Master! my daughter I" ****** silvery light, That shone upon the lone rock by the sea, Slept on the Ruler's lofty capitals, As at the door he stood, and welcomed in Jesus and his disciples. All was still The echoing vestibule gave back the slide Of then- loose sandals, and the arrowy 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 ne touch'd The latchetj from within a whisper came, 20 WILLIS'S POEMS. " Trouble the Master not for she is dead /" And his faint hand fell nerveless at his side, And hie steps falter'd, and his broken voice Choked in its utterance ; but a gentle hand Was laid upon his arm, and in his ear The Saviour's voice sank thrillingly and low. " She is not dead but sleepeth." They passed in. The spice-lamps in the alabaster urns Burned dimly, and the white and fragrant smoke CurPd indolently on the chamber walla. The silken curtains slumbered in their folds Not even a tassel stirring in the air And as the Saviour stood beside the bed, And prayed 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 moved The silken curtains silently apart, And look'd upon the maiden. Like a form Of matchless sculpture in her sleep she lay The linen vesture folded on her breast, And over it her white transparent hands, The blood still rosy in their tapering nails. A line of pearl ran through her parted lips, And in her nostrils, spiritually thin,, WILLIS'S POEMS. 21 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 pencill'd on her brow. Her hair had been unbound, and falling loose Upon her pillow, hid her small round ears In curls of glossy blackness, and about Her pob'shed neck, scarce touching it, they hung, Like airy shadows floating as they slept. 'Twas heavenly beautiful. The Saviour raised Her hand from off her bosom, and spread out The snowy fingers in his palm, and said, " Maiden I 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 Stirred in the linen vesture ; and she clasp'd The Saviour's hand, and fixing her dark eyes Full on his beaming countenance AROSE I THE LEPER. " ROOM for the leper I Room !" And, as he came, The cry pass'd on " Room for the leper I Room !" Sunrise was slanting oil the city gates 22 .WILLIS'S POEMS. Bosy &nd beautiful, and from the hills The early risen poor were coming in, Duly and cheerfully to their toil, and up Koae the sharp hammer's clink, and the far hum Of moving wheels and multitudes astir, And all that in a city murmur swells Unheard but by the watcher's weary ear, Aching with night's dull silence, or the sick Hailing the welcome light and sounds that chase The death-like images of the dark away. " Room for the leper !" And aside they stood Matron and child, and pitiless manhood all 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 with a difficult utterance, like one Whose heart is with an iron nerve put down, Crying, "Unclean! Unclean I" 'Twas now the first, Of the Tudean autumn, and the leaves, Whose shadows lay so still upon his path, Had put their beauty forth beneath the eye Of Judah's palmiest 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 WILLIS'S POEMS. 23 Follow'd with benisons 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 music, 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 Fetter' d his limbs like palsy, and his mien, With all its loftiness, seem'd struck with eld. Even his voice was changed a languid l ftoan Taking the place of the clear silver key ; And brain and sense grew faint, as if the light And very air were steep'd in sluggishness. He strove with it awhile, as manhood will, Ever too proud for weakness, till the rein Slacken'd 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, cover'd him. And then his nails grew black, and fell away From the dull flesh about them, and the hues Deepen'd beneath the hard unmoisten'd scales, And from their edges grew the rank white hair, And Helon was a leper ! Day was breaking, When at the altar of the temple stood The holy priest of God. The incense lamp 24 WILLIS'S POEMS. Burn'd with a struggling light, and a low chant Swell'd through the hollow arches of the roof Like an articulate wail, and there, alone, Wasted to ghastly thinness, Helon knelt. The echoes of the melancholy strain Died in the distant aisles, and he rose up, Struggling with weakness, and bow'd 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 hig lip Hid hi a loathsome covering, stood still, Waiting to hear his doom : Depart ! depart, child Of Israel, from the temple of thy G-od ! For He has smote thee with his chastening rod j 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 hi 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 ; WILLIS'S POEMS. 25 Nor kneel tfcee 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 j And lie not down to sleep beneath the trees 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 1 leper! and forget not God! 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 I For God had cursed 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 touch'd 3 26 WILLIS'S POEMS. The loathsome water to his fever'd lips, Praying that he might be so blest to die ! Footsteps approach' d, and, with no strength (/o 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 like the master-tone Of a rich instrument 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 Helen'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 ; No followers at His back, nor in His hand Buckler, or sword, or spear, yet in his mien Command sat throned serene, and if He smiled. A kingly condescension graced His lips, The lion would have crouch'd to in his lair. His garb was simple, and His sandals worn ; His stature modell'd with a perfect grace ; His countenance the impress of a God, WILLIS'S POKMS- 2Y Touch'd with the open innocence of a child His eye was blue and calm, as in the sky In the serenest noon ; His hair unshorn Fell to his shoulders ; and His curling beard The fulness of perfected manhood bore. lie looked on Heloa earnestly awhile, As if His heart were moved, and, stooping down, He took a little water in His hand And laved the sufferer's brow, and said, (; Be clean!'' And lo ! the scales fell from him, and his blood Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins. And his dry palms grew moist, and on his lips The dewy softness of an infant's stole. His leprosy was cleansed, and he fell down Prostrate at Jesus' feet and worshipp'd him. DAVID'S GRIEF FOR HIS CHILD. 'TWAS daybreak, and the fingers of the dawn Drew the night's curtain, and touch'd silently The eyelids of the king. And David woke. And robed himself, and pray'd. The inmates, novr, Of the vast palace were astir, and feet Glided along the tesselated floors With a pervading murmur, and the fount Whose music had been all the night unheard, Play'd as if light had made it audible ; And each one, waking, bless'd it unaware J8 WILLIS'S POEMS. The fragrant strife of sunshine with the mom Sweeten'd the air to ecstasy 1 and now The king's wont was to lie upon his couch . Beneath the sky- roof of the inner court, And, shut in from the world, but not from hear'a, Play with his loved son by the fountain's lip ; For, with idolatry confess'd alone To the rapt wires of his reproofless harp, He loved the child of Bathsheba. And when The golden selvedge of his robe was heard Sweeping the marble pavement, from within Broke forth a child's laugh suddenly, and words Articulate, perhaps, to his heart only Pleading to come to him. They brought the boy > An infant cherub, leaping as if used To hover with that motion upon wings, And marvellously beautiful 1 His brow Had the inspired up-lift of the king's, And kingly was his infantine regard ; But his ripe mouth was of the ravishing mould Of Bathsheba' s the hue and type of love, Kosy and passionate and oh, the moist Unfathomable blue of his large eyes Gave out its light as twilight shows a star, And drew the heart of the beholder in ! And this was like bis mother. David's lips Moved with unutter'd blessings, and awhile He closed the lids upon his moisten'd eyes, WILLIS'S POKM8. 29 And, with the round cheek of the nestling boy Press'd to his bosom, sat as if afraid That but the lifting of his lids might jar The heart-cup's over-fulness. Unobserved, A servant of the outer court had knelt Waiting before him ; and a cloud the while Had rapidly spread o'er the summer heaven J And, as the chill of the withdrawing sun Fell on the king, he lifted up his eyes And frown'd upon the servant for that hour Was hallow'd to his heart and his fair child, And none might seek him. And the king arose, And with a troubled countenance look'd up To the fast-gathering darkness ; and, behold, The servant bowed himself to earth, and said, " Nathan the prophet cometh from the Lord !" And David's lips grew white, and with a clasp Which wrung a murmur from the frighted child, He drew him to his breast, and covered him With the long foldings of his robe, and said, " I will come forth. Gro now !" And lingeringly With kisses on the fair uplifted brow, And mingled words of tenderness and prayer Breaking in tremulous accents from his lips, He gave to them the child, and bowed his head Upon his breast with agony. And so, To hear the errand of the man of God, He fearfully went forth. ******* 80 WILLIS'S POEMS. It was the morning of the seventh day. A hush was in the palace, for all eyes Had woke before the morn ; and they who drew The curtains to let in the welcome light, Moved in their chambers with unslipper'd feet, And listen'd breathlessly. And still no stir ! The servants who kept watch without the door Sat motionless ; the purple casement-shades From the low windows had been rolled away, To give the child air ; and the flickering light That, all the night, within the spacious court, Had drawn the watcher's eyes to one spot only, Paled with the sunrise and fled in. And hush'd With more than stillness was the room where lay The king's son on his mother's breast. His locks Slept at the lips of Bathsheba unstirr'd So fearfully, with heart and pulse kept down, She watched his breathless slumber. The low moan That from his lips all night broke fitfully, Had silenced with the daybreak ; and a smile Or something that would fain have been a smile Play'd in his parted mouth ; and though his lids Hid not the blue of his unconscious eyes, His senses seemed all peacefully asleep, And Bathsheba in silence bless'd the morn That brought back hope to her ! But when the king Heard not the voice of the complaining child, Nor breath from out th9 room, nor foot astir WILLISS POEMS. 3] But morning there so weleomeless and still Tie groan'd and turn'd upon his face. The night* Had wasted ; and the mornings come ; and days Crept through the sky, unnurnber'd by the king, Since the child sicken'd ; and, without the door, Upon tha bare earth prostrate, he had lain - Listening only to the moans that brought Their inarticulate tidings, and the voice Of Bathsheba, whose pity and caress, In loving utterance all broke with tears, Spoke as his heart would speak if he were there, And fill'd his prayer with agony. God ! To thy bright mercy-seat the way is far ! How fail the weak words while the heart keeps on ! And when the spirit, mournfully, at last, Kneels at thy throne, how cold, how distantly The comforting of friends falls on the ear The anguish they would speak to, gone to Thee ! But suddenly the watchers at the door Rose up, and they who ministered within Crept to the threshold and look'd earnestly Where the king lay. And still, while Bathshebi Held the unmoving child upon her knees, The curtains were let down, and all came forth, And, gathering with fearful looks apart, Whispered together. And the king arose And gazed on them a moment, and with TO ce 82 WILLIS'S POEMS. Of quick, uncertain utterance, he ask'd, "Is the child dead ?" They answer'd, " He is dead !' Put when they look'd to see him fall again Upon his face, and rend himself and weep For, while the child was sick, his agony Would bear no comforters, and they had thought His heartstrings with the tidings must give way Behold ! his face grew calm, and, with his robe Gather' d together like his kingly wont, He silently went in. And David came, Robed and anointed, forth, and to the house Of God went up to pray. And he return' d, And they set bread before him, and he ate And when they marvell'd, he said, " Wherefore mourn? The child is dead, and I shall go to him But he will not return to me" THE SACRIFICE OF ABRAHAM. MORN breaketh in the east. The purple clouds Are putting on their gold and violet, To look the meeter for the sun's bright coming. Sleep is upon the waters and the wind ; And nature, from the wavy forest-leaf To her majestic master, sleeps. As yet WIL.LIS'S POEMS. 38 There is no mist upon the deep blue sky, And the clear dew is on the blushing bosoms Of crimson roses in a holy rest. How hallow'd is the hour of morning ! meet Ay, beautifully meet for the pure prayer. The patriarch standeth at his tented door, With his white locks uncover'd. 'Tis his wont To gaze upon that gorgeous Orient ; And at that hour the awful majesty Of man who talketh often with his Grod, Is wont to come again, and clothe his brow As at his fourscore strength. But now, he seemeth To be forgetful of his vigorous frame, And boweth to his staff as at the hour Of noontide sultriness. And that bright sun- He looketh at its pencill'd messengers, Coming in golden raiment, as if all Were but a graven scroll of fearfulness. Ah, he is waiting till it herald in The hour to sacrifice his much-loved son 1 Light poureth on the world. And Sarah stands Watching the steps of Abraham and her child Along the dewy sides of the far hills, And praying that her sunny boy faint not. Would she have watch'd their path so silently, If she had known that he was going up, E'en in his fair-haired beauty, to be skin As a white lamb for sacrifice ? They trod Together onward, patriarch and child 34 WILLIS'S POEMS. The bright sun throwing back the old man's shade In straight and fair proportions, as of one Whose years were freshly number'd. He stood up s Tall in his vigorous strength ; and, like a tree Rooted in Lebanon, his frame bent not. His thin white hairs had yielded to the wind, And left his brow uncover'd ; and his face, Impress'd with the stern majesty of grief Nerved to a solemn duty, now stood forth Like a rent rock, submissive, yet sublime. But the young boy he of the laughing eye And ruby lip the pride of life was on him. He seem'd to drink the morning. Sun and dew, And the arorna of the spicy trees, And all that giveth the delicious East Its fitness for an Eden, stole like light Into his spirit, ravishing his thoughts With love and beauty. Every thing he met) Buoyant or beautiful, the lightest wing Of bird or insect, or the palest dye Of the fresh flowers, won him from his path; And joyously broke forth his tiny shout, As he flung back his silken hair, and sprung Away to some green spot or clustering vine, To pluck his infant trophies. Every tree And fragrant shrub was a new hiding-place; And he would crouch till the old man came by, Then bound before him with his childish laugh, Stealing a look behind him playfully, To see if he had made his father smile WILLIS'S POEMS. The sun rode on in heaven. The dew stole up From the fresh daughters of the earth, and heat Came like a sleep upon the delicate leaves, And bent them with the blossoms to their dreama Still trod the patriarch on, with that same step. Firm and unfaltering ; turning not aside To seek the olive shades, or lave their lips In the sweet waters of the Syrian wells, Whose gush hath so much music. Weariness Stole on the gentle boy, and he forgot To toss his sunny hair from off his brow^ And spring for the fresh flowers and light wings As in the early rooming ; but he kept Close by his father's side, and bent his head Upon his bosom like a drooping bud, Lifting it not, save now and then, tc steal A look up to the face whose sternness awed His childishness to silence. It was noon And Abraham on Moriah bow'd himself, And buried up his face, and pray'd for strength. He could not look upon his son, and pray But, with his hand upon the clustering curls Of the fair, kneeling boy, he pray'd that God Would nerve him for that hour. * * * * ***** ij e rose U p ; an d laid The wood upon the altar. All was done. He stoo ' a moment and a deep, quick flush WILLIS'S POEMS. Pass'd o'er his countenance ; and then he nerved His spirit with a bitter strength, and spoke " Isaac ! my only son !" The boy look'd up : " Where is the lamb, my father ?" Oh the tonet^ The sweet, familiar voice of a loved child ! What would its music seem at such an hour 1-^. It was the last deep struggle. Abraham held His loved, his beautiful, his only son. And lifted up his arm, and call'd on God And lo ! God's angel stay'd him and he fell Upon his face, and wept THE SHUNAMMITE. IT was a sultry day of summer-time. The sun pour'd down upon the ripen'd grain With quivering heat, and the suspended leaves Hung motionless. The cattle on the hills Stood still, and the divided flock were all Laying their nostrils to the cooling roots, And the sky look'd like silver, and it seem'd As if the air had fainted, and the pulse Of nature had run down, and ceased to beat. " Haste thee, my child !" the Syrian mother said, " Thy father is athirst" and, from the depths WILLIS'S POEMS. '* Of the cool well under the leaning tree, She drew refreshing water, and with thoughts Of God's sweet goodness stirring at her heart, She bless'd her beautiful boy, and to his way Committed him. And he went lightly on, With his soft hands press'd closely to the cool Stone vessel, and his little naked feet Lifted with watchful care ; and o'er the hills, And through the light green hollows where the, ~.amD& Go for the tender grass, he kept his way, Wiling its distance with his simple thoughts, Till, in the wilderness of sheaves, with brows Throbbing with heat, he set his burden down. Childhood is restless ever, and the boy Stay'd not within the shadow of the tree, But with a joyous industry went forth Into the reaper's places, and bound up His tiny sheaves, and plaited cunningly The pliant withs out of the shining straw Cheering their labor on, till they forgot The heat and weariness of their stooping toil In the beguiling of his playful mirth. Presently he was silent, and his eye Closed as with dizzy pain, and with his hand Press'd hard upon his forehead, and his b*eask Heaving with the suppression of a cry, rie utter' d a faint murmur, and fell back Upon the loosen'd sheaf, insensible. 38 WILLIS'S POEMS. They bore him to his mother, and he lay Upon her knees till noon and then he died ! She had watch'd every breath, and kept her hand Soft on his forehead, and gazed in upon The dreamy languor of his listless eye, And she had laid back all his sunny curls And kiss'd his delicate lip, and lifted him Into her bosom, till her heart grew strong-- His beauty was so unlike death I She lean'd Over him now, that she might catch the low Sweet music of his breath, that she had learn'd To love when he was slumbering at her side In his unconscious infancy " So still ! 'Tis a soft sleep ! How beautiful he lies, With his fair forehead, and the rosy veins Playing so freshly in his sunny cheek ! How could they say that he would die! Oh G^dl I could not lose him ! I have treasured all His childhood in my heart, and even now, As he has slept, my memory has been there, Counting like treasures all Ms winning ways His unforgotten sweetness : "Yet so still! How like this breathless slumber is to death ! I could believe that in that bosom now There were no pulse it beats so languidly ! I cannot see it stir ; but his red lip ! Death would not be so very beautiful ! And that half smile would death have left, that (here? WILLIS'S POEMS. St And should I not have felt that he would die? And have I not wept over him ? and pray'd Morning and night for him ? and could he die ? No God will keep him 1 He will be my pride Many long years to come, and his fair hair Will darken like his father's, and his eye Be of a deeper blue when he is grown ; And he will be so tall, and I shall look With such a pride upon him ? He to die 1" And the fond mother lifted his soft curls, And smiled, as if 'twere mockery to think That such fair things could perish. Suddenly Her hand shrunk from him, and the color fled From her fix'd lip, and her supporting knees Were shook beneath her child. Her hand had touch'd His forehead, as she dallied with his hair And it was cold like clay ! Slow, very slow, Came the misgiving that her child was dead. She sat a moment, and her eyes were closed In a dumb prayor for strength, and then she took His little hand and press'd it earnestly And put her lip to his and look'd again Fearfully on him and, then bending low, She whisper' d in his ear, " My son ! my son t" And as the echo died, and not a sound Broke on the stillness, and he lay there still Motionless on her knee the truth would come And with a sharp, quick cry, as if her heart "Were crush' d, she lifted him and held him close 40 WILL1SS POEMS. Into her bosom with a mother's thought As if death had no power to touch him there? ********* The man of G-od came forth, and led the child Unto his mother, and went on his way. And he was there her beautiful her own Living and smiling on her with his arms Folded about her neck, and his warm breath "Breathing upon her lips, and in her ear The music of his gentle voice once more 1 JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER. SHE stood before her father's gorgeous tent, To listen for his coming. Her loose hair Was resting on her shoulders, like a cloud Floating around a statue, and the wind, Just swaying her light robe, reveal'd a shape Praxiteles might worship. She had clasp'd Her hands upon her bosom, and had raised Her beautiful, dark, Jewish eyes to heaven, Till the long lashes lay upon her brow. Her lip was slightly parted, like the cleft Of a pomegranate blossom ; and her neck, Just where the cheek was melting to its curve "With the unearthly beauty sometimes there. Was shaded, as if light had fallen off. WILLIS'S POEMS. 4: Its surface was so polish'd. She was stilling Her light, quick breath, to hear ; and the wliite rose Scarce moved upon her bosom, as it swell'd, Like nothing but a lovely wave of light, To meet the arching of her queenly neck. Her countenance was radiant with love. She look'd like one to die for it a being Whose whole existence was the pouring out Of rich and deep affections. Onward came The leaden tramp of thousands. Clarion notes Rang sharply on the ear at intervals ; And the low, mingled din of mighty hosts Returning from the battle, pour'd from far, Like the deep murmur of a restless sea. They came, as earthly conquerors always come, With blood and splendor, revelry and wo. The stately horse treads proudly he hath trod The brow of death, as well. The chariot-wheels Of warriors roll magnificently on Their weight hath crush'd the fallen. Man is there Majestic, lordly man with his sublime And elevated brow, and godlike frame ; Lifting his crest in triumph- for his heel Hath trod the dying like a wine-press down ! The mighty Jephthah led his warriors on Through Mizpeh's streets. His helm was proudly Be^ And his stern lip curl'd slightly, as if praise 4* 42 WILLIS'S POEMS. Were for the hero's scorn. His step was firm, But free as India's leopard ; and his mail, Whose shekels none in Israel might bear, Was like a cedar's tassel on his frame. His crest was Judah's kingliest ; and the look Of his dark lofty eye, and bended brow, Might quell the lion. He led on ; but thoughts Seem'd gathering round which troubled him. The veins Grew visible upon his swarthy brow, And his proud lip was press'd as if with pain. He trod less firmly ; and his restless eye Glanced forward frequently, as if some ill He dared not meet, were there. His home was near And men were thronging, with that strange delight They have in human passions, to observe The struggle of his feelings with his pride. He gazed intently forward. The tall firs Before his door were motionless. The leaves Of the sweet aloe, and the clustering vines Which half conceal'd his threshold, met his eye, Unchanged and beautiful ; and one by one, The balsam, with its sweet-distilling stems, And the Circassian rose, and all the crowd Of silent and familiar things, stole up, lake the recover'd passages of dreams. He strode on rapidly. A moment more, And he had reach' d his home ; when lo ! there sprang One with a bounding footstep, and a brow Of light, to meet him. Oh, how beautiful ! Her proud eye flashing like a sun-lit gem WILLIS'S POEMS. 4 And her luxuriant hair! 'twas like the sweep Of a dark wing in visions. He stood still, As if the sight had wither' d him. She threw Her arms about his neck he heeded not She call'd him " Father" but ne answer'd not She stood and gazed upon him. Was he wroth ? There was no anger in that blood-shot eye. Had sickness seized him ? She unclasp'd his helm, And laid her white hand gently on his brow, And the large veins felt stiff and hard, like cords. The touch aroused him. He raised up his hands, And spoke the name of God, in agony. She knew that he was stricken, then ; and rush'd Again into his arms ; and, with a flood Of tears she could not bridle, sobb'd a prayer That he would breathe his agony in words. He told her and a momentary flush Shot o'er her countenance; and then the soul Of Jeplithah's daughter waken'd; and she stood Calmly and nobly up, and said 'twas well And she would die. ***** The sun had well nigh set The fire was on the altar ; and the priest Of the High God was there. A pallid man Was stretching out his trembling hands to heaven, As if he would have pray'd, but had no words And she who was to die, the calmest one In Israel at that hour, stood up alone, And waited for the sun to set. Her fac 44 WILLIS'S POEMS. Was pale, but very beautiful her lip Had a more delicate outline, and the tint Was deeper ; but her countenance was like The majesty of angels. The sun set And she was dead but not by violence. ABSALOM. THE waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curl'd Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still, Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse. The reeds bent down the stream ; the willow leaves AV ith 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 lean'd, in graceful attitudes, to rest. How strikingly the course of nature tells, By its light heed of human suffering, That it was fashion'd for a happier world ! King David's limbs were weary. He had fled From far Jerusalem ; and now he stood, With hi8 faint people, for a little rest WILLIS'S POEMS. 4& 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 he had not felt That he could see his people until now. They gather'd round him on the fresh green bank, And spoke their kindly words ; and, as the sun Kose up in heaven, he knelt among there, And bow'd 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 an empty mockery how much The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer 1 He pray'd for Israel and his voice went up Strongly and fervently. He pray'd 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 cherish'd him for him he pour'd, In agony that would not be controll'd, Strong supplication, and forgave him there, Before his God, for his deep sinfulness. ********* The pall was settled. He who slept beneath Was straighten' d for the grave ; and, as the folds Sunk to the still proportions, they betray'd The matchless symmetry of Absalom. 44 WILLIS'S POEMS. His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls Were floating round the tassels as they sway*d To the admitted air, as glossy now As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing The snowy fingers of Judea's daughters. His helm was at his feet : his banner, soil'd With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid, Reversed, beside him : and the jewell'd hilt, Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade, Bested, like mockery, on his cover'd 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 fear'd the slumberer might stir. A slow step startled him. He grasp'd his blade As if a trumpet rang ; but the bent form Of David enter'd, 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 bow'd his head upon him, and broke forth Tn the resistless eloquence of wo : " Alas ! my noble boy ! that thou shouldst die 1 Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair ! That death should settle in thy glorious eye, And leave his stillness in this clustering hirl WILLIS'S POEMS. 47 How could he mark thee for the silent tomb I My proud boy, Absalom I " 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 ! * But death is on 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, ainid death's gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom ! " And now, farewell ! "Pis hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee ; And thy dark sin ! Oh I I could drink the cup, If from this wo its bitterness had won thee. Hay God have call'd thee, like a wanderer, homo, My lost boy, Absalom I" WILLIS'S POEMS. He coVer'd up his face, and bowed himself A moment on his child : then, giving him A look of melting tenderness, he clasp'd His hands convulsively, as if in prayer ; And, as if strength were given him of G-od, He rose up calmly, and composed the pall Firmly and decently and left him there As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. CHRIST'S ENTRANCE INTO JERUSALEM. HE sat upon the " ass's foal" and rode 'On to Jerusalem. Beside him walk'd, Closely and silently, the faithful twelve. And on before him went a multitude Shouting Hosannas, and with eager hands Strewing their garments thickly in his way. Th' unbroken foal beneath him gently stepp'd, tame as its patient dam ; and as the song Of*.*' welcome to the Son of David" burst Forth from a thousand children, and the leaves Of the waved branches touch'd its silken ears, It. turn'd its wild eye for a moment back, And then, subdued by an invisible hand, Meekly trode onward with its slender feet. The dew's last, sparkle from the grass had gone As he rode up Mount Olivet The woods WILLIS'S POEMS. 49 Through tlieir cool shadows freshly to the west, And the light foal, with quick and toiling step, And head bent low, kept its unslacken'd way- Till its soft mane was lifted by the wind Sent o'er the mount from Jordan. As he reach'd The summit's breezy pitch, the Saviour raised His calm blue eye there stood Jerusalem ! Sagerly he bent forward, and beneath His mantle's passive folds, a bolder line Than the wont slightness of his perfect limbs Betray'd the swelling fulness of his heart. There stood Jerusalem ! Plow fair she look'd The silver sun on all her palaces, And her fair daughters 'mid the golden spires Tending their terrace flowers, and Kedron's stream Lacing the meadows with its silver band, And wreathing its mist-mantle on the sky With the morn's exhalations. There she stood Jerusalem the city of his love, Chosen from all the ear Ji ; Jerusalem That knew him not and had rejected him ; Jerusalem for whom he came to die ! The shouts redoubled from a thousand lips At the fair sight ; the children leap'd and sang Louder Hosannas ; the clear air was fill'd With odor from the trampled olive-leaves But " Jesus wept." The loved disciple saw His Master's tears, and closer to his side He came with yearning looks, and on his neck The Saviour leant with heavenly tenderness, 5 50 WILLIS'S POKMS. And mourn' d "How oft, Jerusalem! would I Have gather'd you, as gathereth a hen Her brood beneath her wings but ye would not!" He thought not of the death that he should die He thought not of the thorns he knew must pierce His forehead of the buffet on the cheek The scourge, the mocking homage, the foul scorn 1 Gethsemane stood out beneath his eye Clear hi the morning sun, and there, he knew, While they who " could not watch with him one hour" Were sleeping, he should sweat great drops of blood, Praying the " cup might pass." And Golgotha utood bare and desert by the city wall, And in its midst, to his prophetic eye, Rose the rough cross, and its keen agonies Were number' d all the nails were in his feet Th' insulting sponge was pressing on his lips The blood and water gushing from his side The dizzy faintness swimming in his brain And, while his own disciples fled in fear, A world's death-agonies all mix'd in his ! Ay ! he forgot all this. He only saw Jerusalem, the chos'n the loved the lost ! He only felt that for her sake his life Was vainly giv'n, and, in his pitying love, The sufferings that would clothe the Heavens in black, Were quite forgotten. Was there ever love, In earth or heaven, equal unto this ? WILLIS'S POEMS. 51 BAPTISM OF CHRIST. IT was a green spot in the wilderness, Touch'd by the river Jordan. The dark pine Never had dropp'd its tassels on the moss Tufting the leaning bank, nor on the grass Of the broad circle stretching evenly To the straight larches, had a heavier foot Than the wild heron's trodden. Softly in Through a long aisle of willows, dim and cool, Stole the clear waters with their muffled feet> And, hushing as they spread into the light, Circled the edges of the pebbled bank Slowly, then rippled through the woods away. Hither had come th' Apostle of the wild, Winding the river's course. 'Twas near the flush Of eve, and, with a multitude around, Who from the cities had come out to hear, He stood breast-high amid the running stream, Baptizing as the Spirit gave him power. His simple raiment was of camel's hair, A leathern girdle close about bis loins, His beard unshorn, and for his daily meat The locust and wild honey of the wood But like the face of Moses on the mount Shone his rapt countenance, and in his eye Burn'd the mild fire of love and as he spoke The ear lean'd to him, and persuasion swift To the chain'd spirit of the listener stole. 52 \VILt,TS'S POEMS. Silent upon the green and sleping bank The people sat, and while the leaves were shook With the birds dropping early to their nests, And the gray eve came on, within their hearts They mused if he were Christ. The rippling streair. Still turn'd its silver courses from his breast As he divined their thought. " I but baptize," He said, " with water ; but there cometh One, The latchet of whose shoes I ma/ not dare E'en to unloose. He will baptize with fire And with the Holy G-hosL" And lo ! while yet The words were on his lips, he raised his eyes, And on the bank stood Jesus. He had laid His raiment off, and with his loins alone Girt \vith a mantle, and his perfect limbs, In their angelic slightness, meek and bare, He waited to go in. But John forbade, And hurried to his feet and stay'd him there, And said, " Nay, master ! I have need of thine, Not thou of mine 7" And Jesus, with a smile Of heavenly sadness, met his earnest looks, And answer'd, " Suffer it to be so now; For thus it doth become me to fulfil All righteousness." And, leaning to the stream, He took around him the Apostle's arm, And drew him gently to the midst. The wood Was thick with the dim twilight as they came Up from the water. With his clasped hands Laid on his breast, th' Apostle silently Follow'd his Master's steps when, lo ! a light, WILLIS'S POEMS. i$ Bright as the tenfold glory of the sun, Yet lambent as the softly burning stars, Envelop'd them, and from the heavens away Parted the dim blue ether like a veil ; And as a voice, fearful exceedingly, Broke from the midst, " THIS is MY MUCH LOVED SON IN WHOM I AM WELL PLEASED," a snow-white dove. Floating upon its wings, descended through ; And, shedding a swift music from its plumes, Circled, and nutter 'd to the Saviour's breast. SCENE IN GETHSEMANE. THE moon was shining yet. The Orient's brow Set with the morning-star, was not yet dim ; . . And the deep silence which subdues the breath Like a strong feeling, hung upon the world As sleep upon the pulses of a child. 'Twas the last watch of night. Gethsemane, With its bathed leaves of silver, seem'd dissolved In visible stillness ; and as Jesus' voice, With its bewildering sweetness, met the ear Of his disciples, it vibrated on Like the first whisper in a silent world. They came on slowly. Heaviness oppress'd The Saviour's heart, and when the kindnesses Of his deep love were pour'd, he felt the need 04 WILLIS'S POKMS. Of near communion, for his gift of strength Was wasted by the spirit's weariness. He left them there, and went a little on, And in the depth of that hush'd silentness, Alone with God, he fell upon his face, And as his heart was broken with the rush Of his surpassing agony, and death, Wrung to him from a dying universe, Was mightier than the Son of man could bear, He gave his sorrows way and in the deep Prostration of his soul, breathed out the prayer, " Father, if it be possible with thee, Let this cup pass from me." Oh, how a word, Like the forced drop before the fountain breaks, Stilleth the press of human agony ! The Saviour felt its quiet in his soul ; And though his strength was weakness, and the light Which led him on till now was sorely dun, He breathed a new submission " Not my will, But thine be done, oh Father !" As he spoke, Voices were heard in heaven, and music stole Out from the chambers of the vaulted sky As if the stars were swept like instruments. No cloud was visible, but radiant wings Were coming with a silvery rush to earth, And as the Saviour rose, a glorious one, With an illumined forehead, and the light Whose fountain is the mystery of G-od, Encalm'd within his eye, bow'd down to him And nerved him with a luuistry of strength. WILLIS'S POEMS. f>i It was enough and with his godlike brow- Re- written of his Father's messenger, With meekness, whose divinity is more Than power and glory, he return'd again To his disciples, and awaked their sleep, For " he that should betray him was at hand." THE WIDOW OF NAIN. THE Roman sentinel stood helm'd and tall Beside the gate of Nain. The busy tread Of comers to the city mart was done, For it was almost noon, and a dead heat Quiver'd upon the fine and sleeping dust, And the cold snake crept panting from the wall, And bask'd his scaly circles in the sun. Upon his spear the soldier lean'd, and kept His idle watch, and, as his drowsy dream Was broken by the solitary foot Of some poor mendicant, he raised his head To curse him for a tributary Jew, A.nd slumberously dozed on. 'Twas now high noon. The dull, low murmur of a funeral Went through the city the sad sound of feet Unmix' d with voices and the sentinel 56 WILLIS'S POEMS. Shook off his slumber, and gazed earnestly Up the wide streets along whose paved way The silent throng crept slowly. They came on, Bearing a body heavily on its bier, And by the crowd that in the burning sun, Walk'd with forgetful sadness, 'twas of one Mourn'd with uncommon sorrow. The broad gate Swung on its hinges, and the Roman bent His spear-point downwards as the bearers pass : u, Bending beneath their burden. There was one Only one mourner. Close behind the bier, Crumpling the pall up in her wither'd hands, Follow'd an aged woman. Her short steps Falter'd with weakness, and a broken moan Fell from her lips, thicken' d convulsively As her heart bled afresh. The pitying crowd Folio w'd apart, but no one spoke to her. She had no kinsmen. She had lived alone A widow with one son. He was her all The only tie she had in the wide world And he was dead. They could not comfort her. Jesus drew near to Nam as from the gate The funeral came forth. His lips were pale With the noon's sultry heat. The beaded sweat Stood thickly on his brow, and on the worn And simple latchets of his sandals lay, Thick, the white dust of travel. He had come Since sunrise from Capernaum, staying not To wet his lips by green Bethsaida's poolj. 2 WILLIS'S POEMS. 61 Nor wash his feet in Kishon's silver springs, Nor turn him southward upon Tabor's side To catch Gilboa's light arid spicy breeze. Grenesareth stood cool upon the East, Fast by the Sea of Galilee, and there The weary traveller might bide till eve ; And on the alders of Bethulia's plains The grapes of Palestine hung ripe and wildj Yet turn'd he not aside, but, gazing on, From every swelling mount he saw afar, Amid the hills, the humble spires of Nain, The place of his next errand ; and the path Touch'd not Bethulia, and a league away Upon the East lay pleasant G-alilee. Forth from the city-gate the pitying crowd Follow'd the striken mourner. They came near The plate of burial, and, with straining hands, Closer upon her breast she clasp'd the pall, And with a gasping sob, quick as a child's, And an inquiring wildness flashing through The thin gray lashes of her fever'd eyes, She came where Jesus stood beside the way. He look'd upon her, and his heart was moved. "Weep not!" he said; and as they stay'd the biei And at his bidding laid it at his feet, He gently drew the pall from out her grasp, And laid it back in silence from the dead. "W ith troubled wonder the mute throng drew dear And gazed on his calm looks. A minute's space 58 WILLIS'S POEMS. He stood and pray'd. Then, taking the cold He said, "Arise!" And instantly the breast Heaved in its cerements, and a sudden flush Ran through the lines of the divided lips, And with a murmur of his mother's name, He trembled and sat upright in his shroud. And, while the mourner hung upon his neck, Jesus went calmly on his way to Nain. HAOAR IN THE WILDERNESS. THE morning broke. Light stole upon the clouds With a strange beauty. Earth received again Its garments of a thousand dyes ; and leaves, And delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers, And every thing that bendeth to the dew, And stirreth with the daylight, lifted up Its beauty to the breath of that sweet morn. All things are dark to sorrow ; and the light, And loveliness, and fragrant air were sad To the dejected Hagar. The moist earth Was pouring odors from its spicy pores, And the young birds were singing as if life Were a new thing to them ; but music cam* Upon her ear like discord, and she felt WILLIS 7 S POEMS 59 That pang of the unreasonable heart, That, bleeditrg amid things it loved so well, Would have some sign of sadness as they pass. She stood at Abraham's tent. Her lips were press'd Till the blood started ; and the wandering veins Of her transparent forehead were swell'd out, As if her pride would burst them. Her dark eye Was clear and tearless, and the light of heaven, Which made its language legible, shot back, From her long lashes, as it had been flame. Her noble boy stood by her, with his hand Clasp'd in her own, and his round, delicate feet, Scarce train'd to balance on the tented floor, Sandall'd for journeying. He had look'd up Into his mother's face until he caught The spirit there, and his young heart was swelling Beneath his dimpled bosom, and his form Straighten'd up proudly in his tiny wrath, As if his light proportions would have swell'd. Had they but match'd his spirit, to the man. Why bends the patriarch as he cometh Upon his staff so wearily ? His beard Is low upon his breast, and his high brow So written with the converse of his G-od, Beareth the swollen vein of agony. His lip is quivering, and his wonted step Of vigor is not there ; and though the morn Is passing fair and beautiful, he breathes Its freshness as it were a pestilence. 60 WILLIS'S POEMS. He gave to her the water and the bread, But spoke no word, and trusted not himself To look upon her face, but laid his hand In silent blessing on the fair-hair' d boy, And left her to her lot of loneliness. Should Hagar weep ? May slighted woman turn And, as a vine the oak has shaken off, Bend lightly to her leaning trust again ? O no ! by all her loveliness by all That makes life poetry and beauty, no ! Make her a slave ; steal from her rosy cheek By needless jealousies ; let the last star Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain ; Wrong her by petulance, suspicion, all That makes her cup a bitterness yet givo One evidence of love, and earth has not An emblem of devotedness like hers. But oh I estrange her once it boots not how By wrong or silence any thing that tells A change has come upon your tenderness, And there is not a feeling out of heaven Her pride o'ermastereth not. She went her way with a strong step and slow Her press'd lip arch'd, and her clear eye undimm'd, As if it were a diamond, and her form Borne proudly up, as if her heart breathed through, Her child kept on in silence, though she press'd His hand till it was pain'd ; for he had read, WILLIS'S POEMS. 61 The dark look of his mother, and the seed Of a stern nation had been breathed upon. The morning pass'd, and Asia's sun rode up In the clear heaven, and every beam was heat, The cattle of the hills were in the shade, And the bright plumage of the Orient lay On beating bosoms in her spicy trees. It was an hour of rest ! but Hagar found No shelter in the wilderness, and on She kept her weary way, until the boy Hung down his head, and open'd his parch'd lips For water ; but she could not give it him. She laid him down beneath the sultry sky, For it was better than the close, hot breath Of the thick pines, and tried to comfort him; But he was sore athirst, and his blue eyes Were dim and blood-shot, and he could not know Why God denied him water in the wild. She sat a little longer, and he grew Ghastly and faint, as if he would have died. It was too much for her. She lifted him, And bore him farther on, and laid his head Beneath the shadow of a desert shrub ; And, shrouding up her face, she went away, And sat to watch, where he could see her not. Till he should die; an:l, watching him, she mourn'd " God stay thee in thine agony, my boy ! I cannot see thee die ; I cannot brook Upon thy brow to look, 6 WILLIS'S POEMS. And see death settle on my cradle joy. Bow have I drunk the light of thy blue eye I And could I see thee die ? " I did not dream of this when thou wast strayiitg, lake an unbound gazelle, among the flowers ; Or wiling the soft hours, By the rich gush of water-sources playing, Then sinking weary to thy smiling sleep, So beautiful and deep. " Oh no ! and when I watch'd by thee the while, And saw thy bright lip curling in thy dream- And thought of the dark stream In my own land of Egypt, the far Nile, How pray'd I that my father's land might be An heritage for thee ! And now the grave for its cold breast hath won thee And thy white, delicate limbs the earth will press ; And oh 1 my last caress Must feel thee cold, for a chill hand is on thee. How can I leave my boy, so pillow'd there Upon his clustering hair !" She stood beside the well her G-od had given To gush in that deep wilderness, and bathed The forehead of her child until he laugh'd In his reviving happiness, and lisp'd His infant thought of gladness at the sight Of the cool plashing of his mother's hand. WILLIS'S POEMS. 63 RIZPAH WITH HER SONS, " BREAD for my mother !" said the voice of one Darkening the door of Rizpah. She look'd up And lo ! the princely countenance and mien Of dark-brow'd Armoni. The eye of Saul The very voice and presence of the king Limb, port, and majesty, were present there, Mock'd like an apparition in her son. Yet, as he stoop'd his forehead to her hand With a kind smile, a something of his mother Unbent the haughty arching of his lip, And, through the darkness of the widow's heart Trembled a nerve of tenderness that shook Her thought of pride all suddenly to tears. " Whence comest thou ?" said Rizpah. "From the house Of David. In his gate there stood a soldier This in his hand. I pluck'd it. and I said, 'A king's son takes it for his hungry mother/ 1 Gkd stay the famine !" ****** As he S p k e) a s t e p^ Light as an antelope's, the threshold press'd, And like a beam of light into the room Enter'd Mephibosheth. What bird of heaven Or creature of the wild what flower of earth 64 WILLIS'S POEMS. Was like this fairest of the sons of Saul ! The violet's cup was harsh to his blue eye. Less agile was the fierce barb's fiery step. His voice drew hearts to him. His smile was like The incarnation of some blessed dream Its joyousness so sunn'd the gazer's eye ! Fair were his locks. His snowy teeth divided A bow of Love, drawn with a scarlet thread. His cheek was like the moist heart of the rose ', And, but for nostrils of that bieathing fire That turns the lion back, and limbs as lithe As is the velvet muscle of the pard, Mephibosheth had been too fair for man. As if he were a vision that would fade, Rizpah gazed on him. Never, to her eye, Grew his bright form familiar ; but, like stars, That seem'd each night new lit in a new heaven, He was each morn's sweet gift to her. She loved Her firstborn, as a mother loves her child, Tenderly, fondly. But for him the last What had she done for heaven to be his mother I Her heart rose in her throat to hear his voice ; She look'd at him forever through her tears; Her utterance, when she spoke to him, sank down, As if the lightest thought of him had lain In an unfathom'd cavern of her soul. The morning light was part of him, to her "What broke the day for, but to show his beauty ? The hours but measured time till he should come WILLIS'S POfcMS. 85 Too tardy sang the bird when he was gone ; She would have shut the flowers and call'd the star Back to the mountain-top and bade the sun Pause at eve's golden door to wait for him ! Was this a heart gone wild ? or is the love Of mothers like a madness ? Such as this Is many a poor one in her humble home, Who silently and sweetly sits alone, Pouring her life all out upon her child. What cares she that he does not feel how close Her heart beats after his that all unseen Are the fond thoughts that follow him by day, And watch his sleep like angels ? And, when moved By some sore needed Providence, he stops In his wild path and lifts a thought to heaven, What cares the mother that he does not see The link between the blessing and her prayer ! He who once wept with Mary angels keeping Their unthank'd watch are a foreshadowing Of what love is in heaven. We may believe That we shall know each other's forms hereafter, And, in the bright fields of the better land, Call the lost dead to us. Oh conscious heart I That in the lone paths of this shadowy world Hast bless'd all light, however dimly shining, That broke upon the darkness of thy way Number thy lamps of love, and tell me, now, How mai/y canst thou re-light at the stars And blush not at their burning? One one only WILLIS'S POEMS. Lit while your pulses by one heart kept time, And fed with faithful fondness to your grave (Tho' sometimes with a hand stretch'd back from hearen) Steadfast thro' all things near, when most forgot- - And with its finger of unerring truth Pointing the lost way in thy darkest hour One lamp thy mother's love amid the stars Shall lift its pure flame changeless, and, before The throne of God, burn through eternity Holy as it was lit and lent thee here. The hand in salutation gently raised To the bow'd forehead of the princely boy, Linger'd amid his locks. " I sold," he said, " My Lybian barb for but a cake of meal Lo! this -my mother ! As I pass'd the street^ I hid it in my mantle, for there stand Famishing mothers, with their starving babes, At every threshold ; and wild, desperate men Prowl, with the eyes of tigers, up and down, Watching to rob those who, from house to house, Beg for the dying. Fear not thou, my mother 1 Thy sons will be Elijah's ravens to thee I" [UNFINISHED.] LAZARUS AND MARY. JESUS was there but yesterday. The prints Of his departing feet wer at the door; WILLIS'S POEMS. T Bos " Peace be with you/" was yet audible In the rapt porch of Mary's charmed ear; And, in the low rooms, 'twas as if the air, Hush'd with his going forth, had been the breath Of angels left on watch so conscious still The place seem'd of his presence ! Yet, within, The family by Jesus loved were weeping, For Lazarus lay dead. And Mary sat By the pale sleeper. He was young to die. The countenance whereon the Saviour dwelt With his benignant smile the soft fair lines Breathing of hope were still all eloquent, Like life well mock'd in marble. That the voice, Gone from those pallid lips, was heard in heaven, Toned with unearthly sweetness that the light, Quench'd in the closing of those stirless lids, Was veiling before G-od its timid fire, New-lit, and brightening like a star at eve That Lazarus, her brother, was in bliss, Not with this cold clay sleeping Mary knew. Her heaviness of heart was not for him I But close had been the tie by Death divided. The intertwining locks of that bright hair That wiped the feet of Jesus the fair hands Clasp'd in her breathless wonder While he taught Scarce to one pulse thrill' d more in unison, Than with one soul this sister and her brother Had lock'd their lives together. In this lo'rc. fi8 WILLIS'S POEMS. Hallow' d from stain, the woman's heart of Mary Was, with its rich affections, all bound up. Of an unblemish'd beauty, as became An office by archangels fill'd till now, She walk'd with a celestial halo clad ; And while, to the Apostles' eyes, it seem'd She but fulfill'd her errand out of heaven Sharing her low roof with the Son of God She was a woman, fond and mortal still ; And the deep fervor, lost to passion's fire, Breathed through the sister's tenderness. In vain ]new Mary, gazing on that face of clay, That it was not her brother. He was there Swathed in that linen vesture for the grave The same loved one in all his comeliness And with him to the grave her heart must go. What though he talk'd of her to angels ? nay Hover'd in spirit near her ? 'twas that arm, Palsied in death, whose fond caress she knew ! It was that lip of marble with whose kiss, Morning and eve, love hemm'd the sweet day in. This was the form by the Judean maids Praised for its palm-like stature, as he walk'd With her by Kedron in the eventide The dead was Lazarus j ***** The burial was over, and the night Fell upon Bethany and morn and noon. And comforters and mourners went their way But death stay'd on ! They had been oft alone, When Lazarus had follow'd Christ to hear WILLIS'S POEMS. 09 His teachings in Jerusalem ; but this Was more than solitude. The silence now Was void of expectation. Something felt Always before, and loved without a name, Joy from the air, hope from the opening door, Welcome and life from off the very walls, Seem'd gone and in the chamber where he lay There was a fearful and unbreathing hush, Stiller than night's last hour. So fell on Mary The shadows all have known, whose bleeding hearts Seem'd the torn gate thro' which the loved, departed ; Broke from this world away. The parting soul Spreads wing betwixt the mourner and the sky ! As if its path lay, from the tie last broken, Straight through the cheering gateway of the sun; And, to the eye strain'd after, 'tis a cloud That bars the light from all things. Now as Christ Drew near to Bethany, the Jews went forth With Martha, mourning Lazarus. But Mary Sat in the house. She knew the hour was nigh When He would go again, as He had said, Unto His Father ; and she had felt that He, Who loved her brother Lazarus in life, Had chose the hour to bring him home thro' Death In no unkind forgetfulness. Alone She could lift up the bitter prayer to heaven, " Thy will be done, God !" but that dear brother Had fill'd the cup and broke the bread for Christ; And ever, at the morn, when she had knelt 70 WILLIS'S POEMS. And wash'd those holy feet, came Lazarus To bind his sandals on, and follow forth With dropp'd eyes, like an angel, sad and fair- Intent upon the Master's need alone. Indissolubly link'd were they ! And now, To go to meet him Lazarus not there And to his greeting answer "It is well!" And, without tears, (since grief would weigh on Him Whose soul was over-sorrowful,) to kneel And minister alone her heart gave way { She cover'd up her face and turn'd again To wait within for Jesus. But once more Came Martha, saying, " Lo ! the Lord is here And calleth for thee, Mary !" Then arose The mourner from the ground, whereon she sate Shrouded in sackcloth, and bound quickly up The golden locks of her dishevell'd hair, And o'er her ashy garments drew a veil Hiding the eyes she could not trust. And still, As she made ready to go forth, a calm As in a dream fell on her. At a fount Hard by the sepulchre, without the wall, Jesus awaited Mary. Seated near Were the way-worn disciples in the shade j But, of himself forgetful, Jesus lean'd Upon