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.
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.