NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.
POET, AND THE MOST NOTED MAGAZINIST OF HIS DAY.
T is perhaps unfortunate for Willis that he was such a devotee of fashion and form as to attain a reputation for “foppishness.” Almost all men of genius have some habit or besetting sin which renders them personally more or less unpopular and sometimes even odious to the public eye. The noted poet, Coleridge, of England, had the opium habit, and many people who know this cannot divest their minds of a certain loathing for the man when they come to read his poems. The drink habit of Edgar Allen Poe and other unfortunate facts in his personal life have created a popular prejudice also against this brilliant but erratic genius. A like prejudice exists against the poet naturalist, Thoreau, whose isolation from men and attempt to live on a mere pittance has prejudiced many minds against the reading of his profitable productions; for it has been said that no man ever lived closer to the heart of nature than did this friend of the birds, the insects, animals, flowers, mountains and rivers. It is doubtful if any man in literature has lived a purer life or possessed in his sphere a more exalted genius, given us so close an insight into nature, or awakened a more enthusiastic study of the subject.
Therefore let us look with a deserving charity upon the personal pride, or “foppishness,” if we may call it such, of the poet, Willis. He certainly deserves more general reputation as a poet than modern critics are disposed to accord him. Many of his pieces are of an extraordinary grade of merit, signifying a most analytical and poetic mind, and evincing a marked talent and facility for versification and prose writing executed in a style of peculiar grace and beauty.
Nathaniel Parker Willis was born in Portland, January 20th 1806. The family traces its ancestry back to the fifteenth century in England, and for more than two hundred years prior to his birth both his paternal and maternal ancestors had lived in New England. The poet’s father was for several years publisher and editor of the Easton “Argus,” a political paper established at Portland, Maine, in 1803. He founded a religious paper, the Boston “Recorder,” in 1816, which he conducted for twenty years, and he was also the founder of the first child’s newspaper in the world, which is the now famous and widely circulated “Youth’s Companion.” Willis was six years old when his father removed to Boston. He had the best educational facilities from private tutors and select schools, completing his course at Yale College, where he graduated in 1827. While in college he published several religious poems [♦]under the signature of “Roy,” gaining in one instance a prize of fifty dollars for the best poem. After his graduation Willis became the editor of a series of volumes published by S. G. Goodrich, entitled “The Legendary.” He next established the “American Monthly Magazine” which he merged after two years into the New York “Mirror,” to which paper his “Pencilings by the Way” were contributed during a four year’s tour in Europe, on which journey he was attached to the American legation at Paris, and with a diplomatic passport visited the various capitals of Europe and the East. During this sojourn, in 1835, he married Miss Mary Stace, daughter of a Waterloo officer.
[♦] ‘unter’ replaced with ‘under’
After his marriage Mr. Willis returned to this country with his wife and established a home on the Susquehanna River, which he called Glenmary, the latter part of the word being in honor of his wife. Here he hoped to spend the remainder of his days quietly in such literary work as pleased his taste, but the resources from which his support came were swept away in a financial disaster and he was forced to return to active life. He disposed of his country seat, removed to New York, and in connection with Dr. Porter established the “Corsair,” a weekly journal. In the interest of this publication Mr. Willis made a second journey to England, engaging Mr. Thackeray and other well-known writers as contributors. While absent he published a miscellany of his magazine stories with the title of “Loiterings of Travel” and also two of his plays. On returning to New York he found that Dr. Porter had suddenly abandoned their project in discouragement and he formed a new connection with the “Evening Mirror.” Soon after this the death of his wife occurred, his own health failed, and he went abroad determining to spend his life in Germany. On reaching Berlin he was attached to the American legation, but went away on a leave of absence to place his daughter in school in England. In the meantime his health grew so precarious that instead of returning to Berlin he sailed for America, where he spent the remainder of his life in contributing to various magazines. He established a home, “Idlewild,” in the highlands of the Hudson beyond West Point, where he died in 1867 on his sixty-first birthday.
Throughout his life Mr. Willis was an untiring worker and his days were no doubt ended much earlier than if he had taken proper rest. “The poetry of Mr. Willis,” says Duyckinck, “is musical and original. His religious poems belong to a class of composition which critics might object to did not experience show them to be pleasing and profitable interpreters to many minds. The versification of these poems is of remarkable smoothness. Indeed they have gained the author’s reputation where his nicer poems would have failed to be appreciated. On the other hand his novel in rhyme, ‘Lady Jane,’ is one of the very choicest of the numerous poems cast in the model of ‘Don Juan;’ while his dramas are delicate creations of sentiment and passion with a relic of the old poetic Elizabethan stage.” As a traveler Mr. Willis has no superior in representing the humors and experiences of the world. He is sympathetic, witty, observant, and at the same time inventive. That his labors were pursued through broken health with unremitting diligence is another claim to consideration which the public should be prompt to acknowledge.
DAVID’S LAMENT FOR ABSALOM.
HE waters slept. Night’s silvery veil hung low
On Jordan’s bosom, and the eddies curled
Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still,
Unbroken beating of the sleeper’s pulse.
The reeds bent down the stream: the willow leaves
With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide,
Forgot the lifting winds; and the long stems
Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse
Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way,
And leaned, in graceful attitude, to rest.
How strikingly the course of nature tells
By its light heed of human suffering,
That it was fashioned for a happier world.
King David’s limbs were weary. He had fled
From far Jerusalem: and now he stood
With his faint people, for a little space,
Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind
Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow,
To its refreshing breath; for he had worn
The mourner’s covering, and had not felt
That he could see his people until now.
They gathered round him on the fresh green bank
And spoke their kindly words: and as the sun
Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there,
And bowed his head upon his hands to pray.
Oh! when the heart is full,—when bitter thoughts
Come crowding thickly up for utterance,
And the poor common words of courtesy,
Are such a very mockery—how much
The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!
He prayed for Israel: and his voice went up
Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those,
Whose love had been his shield: and his deep tones
Grew tremulous. But, oh! for Absalom,—
For his estranged, misguided Absalom.—
The proud bright being who had burst away
In all his princely beauty, to defy
The heart that cherished him—for him he poured
In agony that would not be controlled
Strong supplication, and forgave him there,
Before his God, for his deep sinfulness.
The pall was settled. He who slept beneath
Was straightened for the grave: and as the folds
Sank to the still proportions, they betrayed
The matchless symmetry of Absalom.
His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls
Were floating round the tassels as they swayed
To the admitted air, as glossy now
As when in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing
The snowy fingers of Judea’s girls.
His helm was at his feet: his banner soiled
With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid,
Reversed, beside him; and the jeweled hilt
Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade,
Rested like mockery on his covered brow.
The soldiers of the king trod to and fro,
Clad in the garb of battle; and their chief,
The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier,
And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly,
As if he feared the slumberer might stir.
A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade
As if a trumpet rang: but the bent form
Of David entered, and he gave command
In a low tone to his few followers,
And left him with his dead. The King stood still
Till the last echo died: then, throwing off
The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back
The pall from the still features of his child,
He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth
In the resistless eloquence of woe:
“Alas! my noble boy! that thou should’st die,—
Thou who wert made so beautifully fair!
That death should settle in thy glorious eye,
And leave his stillness in this clustering hair—
How could he mark thee for the silent tomb;
My proud boy, Absalom!
“Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill
As to my bosom I have tried to press thee—
How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill,
Like a rich harp string, yearning to caress thee—
And hear thy sweet ‘My father,’ from these dumb
And cold lips, Absalom!
“The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush
Of music, and the voices of the young:
And life will pass me in the mantling blush,
And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung,—
But thou no more with thy sweet voice shall come
To meet me, Absalom!
“And, oh! when I am stricken, and my heart
Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken,
How will its love for thee, as I depart,
Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token!
It were so sweet, amid death’s gathering gloom,
To see thee, Absalom!
“And now farewell. ’Tis hard to give thee up,
With death so like a gentle slumber on thee;
And thy dark sin—oh! I could drink the cup
If from this woe its bitterness had won thee.
May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home,
My lost boy, Absalom!”
He covered up his face, and bowed himself
A moment on his child; then giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer:
And as if strength were given him of God,
He rose up calmly and composed the pall
Firmly and decently,—and left him there,
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.
THE DYING ALCHEMIST.
HE night-wind with a desolate moan swept by,
And the old shutters of the turret swung
Creaking upon their hinges; and the moon,
As the torn edges of the clouds flew past,
Struggled aslant the stained and broken panes
So dimly, that the watchful eye of death
Scarcely was conscious when it went and came.
The fire beneath his crucible was low,
Yet still it burned: and ever, as his thoughts
Grew insupportable, he raised himself
Upon his wasted arm, and stirred the coals
With difficult energy; and when the rod
Fell from his nerveless fingers, and his eye
Felt faint within its socket, he shrank back
Upon his pallet, and, with unclosed lips,
Muttered a curse on death!
The silent room,
From its dim corners, mockingly gave back
His rattling breath; the humming in the fire
Had the distinctness of a knell; and when
Duly the antique horologe beat one,
He drew a phial from beneath his head,
And drank. And instantly his lips compressed,
And, with a shudder in his skeleton frame,
He rose with supernatural strength, and sat
Upright, and communed with himself:
“I did not think to die
Till I had finished what I had to do;
I thought to pierce th’ eternal secret through
With this my mortal eye;
I felt,—Oh, God! it seemeth even now—
This cannot be the death-dew on my brow;
Grant me another year,
God of my spirit!—but a day,—to win
Something to satisfy this thirst within!
I would know something here!
Break for me but one seal that is unbroken!
Speak for me but one word that is unspoken!
“Vain,—vain,—my brain is turning
With a swift dizziness, and my heart grows sick,
And these hot temple-throbs come fast and thick,
And I am freezing,—burning,—
Dying! Oh, God! if I might only live!
My phial——Ha! it thrills me,—I revive.
“Aye,—were not man to die,
He were too mighty for this narrow sphere!
Had he but time to brood on knowledge here,—
Could he but train his eye,—
Might he but wait the mystic word and hour,—
Only his Maker would transcend his power!
“This were indeed to feel
The soul-thirst slacken at the living stream,—
To live, Oh, God! that life is but a dream!
And death——Aha! I reel,—
Dim,—dim,—I faint, darkness comes o’er my eye,—
Cover me! save me!——God of heaven! I die!”
’Twas morning, and the old man lay alone.
No friend had closed his eyelids, and his lips,
Open and ashy pale, th’ expression wore
Of his death struggle. His long silvery hair
Lay on his hollow temples, thin and wild,
His frame was wasted, and his features wan
And haggard as with want, and in his palm
His nails were driven deep, as if the throe
Of the last agony had wrung him sore.
The storm was raging still. The shutter swung,
Creaking as harshly in the fitful wind,
And all without went on,—as aye it will,
Sunshine or tempest, reckless that a heart
Is breaking, or has broken, in its change.
The fire beneath the crucible was out.
The vessels of his mystic art lay round,
Useless and cold as the ambitious hand
That fashioned them, and the small rod,
Familiar to his touch for threescore years,
Lay on th’ alembic’s rim, as if it still
Might vex the elements at its master’s will.
And thus had passed from its unequal frame
A soul of fire,—a sun-bent eagle stricken.
From his high soaring, down,—an instrument
Broken with its own compass. Oh, how poor
Seems the rich gift of genius, when it lies,
Like the adventurous bird that hath outflown
His strength upon the sea, ambition wrecked,—
A thing the thrush might pity, as she sits
Brooding in quiet on her lowly nest.
THE BELFRY PIGEON.
N the cross-beam under the Old South bell
The nest of a pigeon is builded well,
In summer and winter that bird is there,
Out and in with the morning air.
I love to see him track the street,
With his wary eye and active feet;
And I often watch him as he springs,
Circling the steeple with easy wings,
Till across the dial his shade has passed,
And the belfry edge is gained at last.
’Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note,
And the trembling throb in its mottled throat;
There’s a human look in its swelling breast.
And the gentle curve of its lowly crest;
And I often stop with the fear I feel,
He runs so close to the rapid wheel.
Whatever is rung on that noisy bell,
Chime of the hour or funeral knell,
The dove in the belfry must hear it well.
When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon,
When the sexton cheerily rings for noon,
When the clock strikes clear at morning light,
When the child is waked with “nine at night,”
When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air,
Filling the spirit with tones of prayer,
Whatever tale in the bell is heard,
He broods on his folded feet, unstirred,
Or, rising half in his rounded nest,
He takes the time to smooth his breast;
Then drops again, with filmed eyes,
And sleeps as the last vibration dies.
Sweet bird! I would that I could be
A hermit in the crowd like thee!
With wings to fly to wood and glen,
Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men;
And daily, with unwilling feet,
I tread, like thee, the crowded street;
But, unlike me, when day is o’er,
Thou canst dismiss the world, and soar;
Or, at a half-felt wish for rest,
Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast,
And drop, forgetful, to thy nest.
I would that in such wings of gold,
I could my weary heart up-fold;
I would I could look down unmoved,
(Unloving as I am unloved,)
And while the world throngs on beneath,
Smooth down my cares, and calmly breathe;
And never sad with others’ sadness,
And never glad with others’ gladness,
Listen, unstirred, to knell or chime,
And, lapped in quiet, bide my time.
