Part 1

SKETCHES:

BY N. P. WILLIS.

‘---- If I remember, You loved such stories once, thinking they brought Man to a fine and true humanity.’ Barry Cornwall.

BOSTON: S. G. GOODRICH, 141, WASHINGTON ST.

* * * * *

MDCCCXXVII.

DISTRICT OF MASSACHUSETTS, _to wit_: _District Clerk’s Office._

Be it remembered, that on the thirtieth day of November, A. D. 1827, in the fifty second year of the Independence of the United States of America, _N. P. Willis_, of the said district, has deposited in this office the title of a book, the right whereof he claims as author, in the words following, _to wit_: ‘Sketches. By N. P. Willis.

“---- If I remember, You loved such stories once, thinking they brought Man to a fine and true humanity.” Barry Cornwall.’

In conformity to the act of the Congress of the United States, entitled, ‘An act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts, and books, to the authors and proprietors of such copies, during the times therein mentioned;’ and also to an act entitled ‘An act supplementary to an act, entitled, an act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts, and books to the authors and proprietors of such copies during the times therein mentioned; and extending the benefits thereof to the arts of designing, engraving and etching historical and other prints.’

JNO. W. DAVIS, _Clerk of the District of Massachusetts._

BOSTON: PRESS OF THE CHRISTIAN EXAMINER.

Stephen Foster, Printer.

TO MY FATHER THIS VOLUME IS RESPECTFULLY AND AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED.

PREFACE.

In introducing this volume to the Public, the Author would simply remark, that it was written at different periods of a college life, which has just expired; (the Scripture Sketches at a very early part of it.) He has no intention of screening its faults, either of feeling or style, beneath his ‘score of summers;’ but as prefaces are the fashion, he has thought the mention of the fact would not be amiss in the promotion of a proper understanding between himself and his readers.

CONTENTS.

SKETCHES.

The Sacrifice of Abraham 9 Absalom 14 Hagar in the Wilderness 20 Jephthah’s Daughter 26 Idleness 32 Dreams 34 October 38 Boyhood 41 Night Sketches 44 Twilight 49 Dawn 51 Scraps from a Journal 53 Better Moments 61 The Hindoo Mother 65 Waiting for the Harvesters 75

FUGITIVE PIECES.

The Soldier’s Widow 79 The Burial of Arnold 81 To Laura W---- 84 Sonnets 87, 88, 89 Extract from a Poem Delivered at the Departure of the Senior Class of Yale College in 1826 90 Notes 95

SKETCHES.

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 tremulous forest leaf To her majestic master, sleeps. As yet 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 hallowed is the hour of morning! meet, Aye, beautifully meet, for the pure prayer.

The patriarch standeth at his tented door, With his white locks uncovered. ’Tis his wont To gaze upon the gorgeous orient; And at that hour the awful majesty Of one who talketh often with his God, 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 pencilled messengers, Coming in golden raiment, as if light Were opening a fearful scroll in heaven. Ah! he is waiting till it herald in The hour to sacrifice his much loved son!

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 watched their path so silently, If she had known that he was going up, Even in his fair-haired beauty, to be slain As a white lamb for sacrifice? They trod Together onward, patriarch and child; The bright sun throwing back the old man’s shade, In straight and fair proportions, as of one Erect in early vigor. He stood up Firm in his better 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 uncovered; and his face, Impressed 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 seemed to drink the morning. Sun and dew, And the aroma 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, Floating 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.

The sun rode on in heaven. The dew stole up Like a light veil from nature, and the heat Came like a sleep upon the delicate leaves, And bent them with the blossoms to their dreams. Still trod the patriarch on with that same step, Firm and unfaltering, turning not aside To seek the olive shades, or lave his 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 light wings and gaudy flowers, As in the early morning; 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 to steal A look up to the face whose sternness awed His childishness to silence.

It was noon; And Abraham on Moriah bowed himself, And buried up his face, and prayed 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 prayed that God Would nerve him for that hour. Oh! man was made For the stern conflict. In a mother’s love There is more tenderness; the thousand cords Woven with every fibre of her heart, Complain, like delicate harp strings, at a breath; But love in man is one deep principle, Which, yielding not to lighter influence, Abides the tempest. He rose up, and laid The wood upon the altar. All was done. He stood a moment, and a vivid flush Passed o’er his countenance; and then he nerved His spirit with a bitter strength, and spoke: ‘Isaac! my only son!’ The boy looked up, And Abraham turned his face away, and wept. ‘Where is the lamb, my father?’ Oh! the tones, The sweet, the thrilling music of a child! How it doth agonize at such an hour! It was the last, deep struggle. Abraham held His loved, his beautiful, his only son, And lifted up his arm, and called on God-- And lo! God’s Angel stayed him; and he fell Upon his face and wept.

ABSALOM.

The waters slept. Night’s silvery veil hung low On Jordan’s bosom, and the eddies curled Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still Unbroken beating of the sleeper’s pulse. The reeds bent down the stream. The willow leaves, With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide, Forgot the lifting winds; and the long stems, Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse, Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way And leaned in graceful attitudes to rest. How strikingly the course of nature tells, By its light heed of human suffering, That it was fashioned for a perfect world!

King David’s limbs were weary. He had fled From far Jerusalem, and now he stood With his faint people for a little rest 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 gathered round him on the fresh green bank, And spoke their kindly words; and as the sun Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there, And bowed his head upon his hands to pray. Oh! when the heart is full, when bitter thoughts Come crowding thickly up for utterance, And the poor common words of courtesy Are such a very mockery, how much The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer! He prayed for Israel; and his voice went up Strongly and fervently; he prayed for those Whose love had been his shield; and his deep tones Grew tremulous; but oh! for Absalom! For his estranged, misguided Absalom-- The proud, bright being who had burst away, In all his princely beauty, to defy The heart that cherished him--for him he poured, In agony that would not be controlled, Strong supplication, and forgave him there Before his God, for his deep sinfulness.

The hosts were numbered. At Mahanaim’s gate Sat David, as the glittering thousands passed Forth to the battle. With a troubled eye He looked upon their pomp, and as the helms Bent low before him, and the banners swayed Like burnished wings to do him reverence, His look grew restless, and he did not wear The lofty sternness of a monarch’s brow. The leader of the host came by. His form Was like a son of Anak, and he strode Majestically on, and bore his crest As men were waters, and his frame a rock. The king rose up to Joab, and came near, As his tall helm was bowed; and by the love He bore his master, he besought him there That he would spare him Absalom alive. He passed with his stern warriors on; the trump And the loud cymbal died upon the ear; And as the king turned off his weary gaze, The last faint gleam had vanished, and the wood Of Ephraim had received a thousand men, To whom its pleasant shadows were a grave.

The pall was settled. He who slept beneath Was straightened for the grave; and as the folds Sunk to the still proportions, they betrayed The matchless symmetry of Absalom. His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls Were floating round the tassels as they swayed To the admitted air, as glossy now As when in hours of gentle dalliance bathing The snowy fingers of Judea’s girls. His helm was at his feet; his banner, soiled With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid Reversed beside him; and the jewelled hilt, Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade, Rested like mockery on his covered brow. The soldiers of the king trod to and fro, Clad in the garb of battle, and their chief, The mighty Joab, stood beside his bier And gazed upon the dark pall stedfastly, As if he feared the slumberer might stir. A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade As if a trumpet rang; but the bent form Of David entered, and he gave command In a low tone to his few followers, And left him with his dead. The king stood still Till the last echo died; then throwing off The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back The pall from the still features of his child, He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth In the resistless eloquence of woe.

‘Alas! my noble boy, that thou shouldst die! Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair! That death should settle in thy glorious eye, And leave his stillness in this clustering hair! How could he mark thee for the silent tomb, My proud boy, Absalom!

‘Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill When to my bosom I would try to press thee; How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, Like a rich harp string, yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet “My Father!” from these dumb And cold lips, Absalom!

‘The grave hath won thee; I shall hear the gush Of music and the voices of the young; And life will pass me in the mantling blush, And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung; But thou no more with thy sweet voice shalt 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, Long for thine ear to catch its dying token! It were so sweet, amid death’s gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom!

‘And now farewell! ’tis hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee. And thy dark sin--oh! I could drink the cup, If from this woe its bitterness had won thee-- May God have called thee like a wanderer home, My erring Absalom!’

He covered up his face, and bowed himself A moment on his child; then giving him A look of melting tenderness, he clasped His hands convulsively, as if in prayer; And as a strength were given him of God, He rose up calmly, and composed the pall About him decently, and left him there As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.

HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS.

The morning broke. Light stole upon the clouds With a strange beauty. Earth received again Its garment of a thousand dies; 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 caroling as life Were a new thing to them; but oh! it came Upon her heart like discord, and she felt How cruelly it tries a broken heart, To see a mirth in any thing it loves. She stood at Abraham’s tent. Her lips were pressed Till the blood left them; and the wandering veins Of her transparent forehead, were swelled 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 Clasped in her own, and his round, delicate feet, Scarce trained to balance on the tented floor, Sandaled for journeying. He had looked up Into his mother’s face until he caught The spirit there, and his young heart was swelling Beneath his snowy bosom, and his form Straightened up proudly in his tiny wrath, As if his light proportions would have swelled, Had they but matched his spirit, to the man.

Why bends the patriarch as he cometh now Upon his staff so wearily? His beard Is low upon his breast, and his high brow, So written with the converse of his God, 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. Oh! man may bear with suffering; his heart Is a strong thing, and godlike in the grasp Of pain that wrings mortality; but tear One cord affection clings to, part one tie That binds him to a woman’s delicate love, And his great spirit yieldeth like a reed.

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-haired boy, And left her to her lot of loneliness.

Should Hagar weep? May slighted woman turn, And as a vine the oak hath shaken off, Bend lightly to her tendencies again? Oh 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 give One evidence of love, and earth has not An emblem of devotedness like hers. But oh! 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 high thing out of heaven Her pride o’ermastereth not.

She went her way with a strong step and slow; Her pressed lip arched, and her clear eye undimmed, As it had been a diamond, and her form Borne proudly up, as if her heart breathed through. Her child kept on in silence, though she pressed His hand till it was pained; for he had caught, As I have said, her spirit, and the seed Of a stern nation had been breathed upon.

The morning past, 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 opened his parched 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 bloodshot, 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--and watching him she mourned:--

‘God stay thee in thine agony, my boy! I cannot see thee die; I cannot brook Upon thy brow to look, And see death settle on my cradle joy. How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye! And could I see thee die?

‘I did not dream of this when thou wast straying, Like an unbound gazelle, among the flowers; Or wearing rosy 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 watched 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 deep Nile, How prayed I that my fathers’ 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! my last caress Must feel thee cold, for a chill hand is on thee. How can I leave my boy, so pillowed there Upon his clustering hair!’

She stood beside the well her God had given To gush in that deep wilderness, and bathed The forehead of her child until he laughed In his reviving happiness, and lisped His infant thought of gladness at the sight Of the cool plashing of his mother’s hand.

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, revealed a shape Praxiteles might worship. She had clasped Her hands upon her bosom, and had raised Her beautiful, dark, Jewish eyes to heaven, Till the long lashes laid upon her brow. Her lip was slightly parted, like the leaves Of a half-blown pomegranate; 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, Its surface was so polished. She was quelling Her light, quick breath, to hear; and the white rose Scarce moved upon her bosom as it swelled, Like nothing but a wave of light in dreams, To meet the arching of her queenly neck. Her countenance was radiant with love. She looked like one to die for it; a being Whose whole existence was the pouring out Of rich and deep affections. I have thought A brother’s and a sister’s love was much. I know a brother’s is, for I have loved A trusting sister; and I know how broke The heart may be with its own tenderness. But the affection of a delicate child For a fond father, gushing as it does With the sweet springs of life, and living on Through all earth’s changes like a principle, Chastened with reverence, and made more pure By early discipline of light and shade,-- It must be holier!

The wind bore on 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, poured from far, Like the deep murmur of a restless sea. They came, as earthly conquerors always come, With blood and splendor, revelry and woe. 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 crushed the fallen. Man is there; Majestic, lordly man, with his serene And elevated brow and godlike frame, Lifting his crest in triumph, for his heel Hath trod the dying like a wine-press down!