"Alas! my n.o.ble 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 cl.u.s.tering 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 those 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 pa.s.s 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, 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! 'T is hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee!-- And thy dark skin!--oh! I could drink the cup, If from this woe its bitterness had won thee.

May G.o.d 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 G.o.d, He rose up calmly, and composed the pall Firmly and decently--and left him there, As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.

N. P. Willis.

CLXVII.

"LOOK NOT UPON THE WINE."

Look not upon the wine when it Is red within the cup!

Stay not for pleasure when she fills Her tempting beaker up!

Though clear its depths, and rich its glow, A spell of madness lurks below.

They say 't is pleasant on the lip, And merry on the brain;

They say it stirs the sluggish blood, And dulls the tooth of pain.

Ay--but within its glowing deeps A stinging serpent, unseen, sleeps.

Its rosy lights will turn to fire, Its coolness change to thirst; And, by its mirth, within the brain A sleepless worm is nursed.

There's not a bubble at the brim That does not carry food for him.

Then dash the br.i.m.m.i.n.g cup aside, And spill its purple wine; Take not its madness to thy lip-- Let not its curse be thine.

'T is red and rich but grief and woe Are in those rosy depths below.

N. P. Willis.

CLXVIII.

THE LEPER.

Day was breaking, When at the altar of the temple stood The holy priest of G.o.d. The incense lamp Burned with a struggling light, and a low chant Swelled 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 bowed down his head Unto the sprinkled ashes, and put off His costly raiment for the leper's garb, And with the sackcloth round him, and his lip Hid in a loathsome covering, stood still, Waiting to hear his doom:--

"Depart! depart, O child Of Israel, from the temple of thy G.o.d!

For He has smote thee with His chastening rod, And to the desert-wild, From all thou lov'st, away thy feet must flee, That from thy plague His people may be free.

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

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

"Wet not thy burning lip In streams that to a human dwelling glide; Nor rest thee where the covert fountains hide; Nor kneel thee down to dip The water where the pilgrim bends to drink, By desert well, or river's gra.s.sy brink.

"And pa.s.s not thou between The weary traveller and the cooling breeze; 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! O leper! and forget not G.o.d!"

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

For G.o.d 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 touched The loathsome water to his fevered lips, Praying he might be so blest--to die!

Footsteps approached, and with no strength to flee, He drew the covering closer on his lip, Crying, "Unclean!--unclean!" and in the folds Of the coa.r.s.e sackcloth shrouding up his face, He fell upon the earth till they should pa.s.s.

Nearer the Stranger came, and bending o'er The leper's prostrate form, p.r.o.nounced 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 Helon's eye, As he beheld the Stranger. He was not In costly raiment clad, nor on His brow The symbol of a lofty 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 crouched to in his lair.

His garb was simple, and His sandals worn; His statue modelled with a perfect grace; His countenance, the impress of a G.o.d, Touched with the open innocence of a child; His eye was blue and calm, as is the sky In the serenest noon; His hair, unshorn, Fell to His shoulders; and His curling beard The fulness of perfected manhood bore.

He looked on Helon earnestly awhile, As if His heart was moved; and stooping down, He took a little water in His hand And laid it on his brow, and said, "Be clean!"

And lo! the scales fell from him, and his blood Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins, And his dry palms grew moist, and on his brow The dewy softness of an infant's stole.

His leprosy was cleansed, and he fell down Prostrate at Jesus' feet, and worshiped him.

N. P. Willis.

CLXLX.

PARRHASIUS AND THE CAPTIVE.

The golden light into the painter's room Streamed richly, and the hidden colors stole From the dark pictures radiantly forth, And in the soft and dewy atmosphere, Like forms and landscapes magical they lay.

Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus-- The vulture at his vitals, and the links Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh; And, as the painter's mind felt through the dim Rapt mystery, and plucked the shadows forth With its far-reaching fancy, and with form And color clad them, hiss fine earnest eye Flashed with a pa.s.sionate fire, and the quick curl Of His thin nostril, and his quivering lip Were like the winged G.o.d's, breathing from his fight

"Bring me the captive, now!

My hand feels skilful, and the shadows lift From my waked spirit airily and swift, And I could paint the bow Upon the bended heavens--around me play Colors of such divinity to-day.

"Ha! bind him on his back!

Look!--as Prometheus in my picture here!

Quick!--or he faints!--stand with the cordial near!

Now--bend him on the rack!

Press down the poisoned links into his flesh!

And tear agape that healing wound afresh!

"So,--let him writhe! How long Will he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, now!

What a fine agony works upon his brow!

Ha! gray-haired and so strong!

How fearfully he stifles that short moan!

G.o.ds! if I could but paint a dying groan!