THE DEATH-BED OF BEAUTY. SHE sleeps in beauty, like the dying rose By the warm skies and winds of June forsaken; Or like the sun, when dimm'd with clouds it goes To its clear ocean-bed, by light winds shaken: Or like the moon, when through its robes of snow It smiles with angel meekness-or like sorrow When it is soothed by resignation's glow, Or like herself,-she will be dead to-morrow. How still she sleeps! The young and sinless girl! And the faint breath upon her red lips trembles! Waving, almost in death, the raven curl That floats around her; and she most resembles The fall of night upon the ocean foam, Wherefrom the sun-light hath not yet departed; And where the winds are faint. She stealeth home, Unsullied girl! an angel broken-hearted! O, bitter world! that hadst so cold an eye And her heart-strings were frozen here and riven, And now she lies in ruins-look and weep! How lightly leans her cheek upon the pillow! And how the bloom of her fair face doth keep Changed, like a stricken dolphin on the billow. TO THE ICE-MOUNTAIN. GRAVE of waters gone to rest! Wandering on the trackless plain, Sailing mid the angry storm, Ploughing ocean's oozy floor, Piling to the clouds thy form! Is it that thou comest forth? Roamer in the hidden path, 'Neath the green and clouded wave! Trampling in thy reckless wrath, On the lost, but cherish'd brave; Parting love's death-link'd embraceCrushing beauty's skeletonTell us what the hidden race With our mourned lost have done! Floating isle, which in the sun Art an icy coronal; Wend thee to the southern main; THE PRISONER FOR DEBT. WHEN the summer sun was in the west, Some on the blue and changeful sea, And some in the prisoner's cell. And then his eye with a smile would beam, And the blood would leave his brain, And the verdure of his soul return, Like sere grass after rain! But when the tempest wreathed and spread A mantle o'er the sun, He gather'd back his woes again, And brooded thereupon; And thus he lived, till Time one day TO A WAVE. LIST! thou child of wind and sea, Wave! now on the golden sands, Thou hast leap'd on high to pilfer? Was telling of a floating prison, Which, when tempests swept along, And the mighty winds were risen, Founder'd in the ocean's grasp. While the brave and fair were dying, Wave! didst mark a white hand clasp In thy folds, as thou wert flying? Hast thou seen the hallow'd rock Where the pride of kings reposes, Crown'd with many a misty lock, Wreathed with sapphire, green, and roses! Or with joyous, playful leap, Hast thou been a tribute flinging, Up that bold and jutty steep, Pearls upon the south wind stringing? Faded Wave! a joy to thee, Now thy flight and toil are over! O, may my departure be Calm as thine, thou ocean-rover! When this soul's last pain or mirth On the shore of time is driven, Be its lot like thine on earth, To be lost away in heaven! N. P. WILLIS. [Born, 1807.] NATHANIEL P. WILLIS was born at Portland, in Maine, on the twentieth day of January, 1807. During his childhood his parents removed to Boston; and at the Latin school in that city, and at the Philips Academy in Andover, he pursued his studies until he entered Yale College, in 1823. While he resided at New Haven, as a student, he won a high reputation, for so young an author, by a series of "Scripture Sketches," and a few other brief poems; and it is supposed that the warm and too indiscriminate praises bestowed upon these productions, influenced unfavourably his subsequent progress in the poetic art. He was graduated in 1827, and in the following year he published a "Poem delivered before the Society of United Brothers of Brown University," which, as well as his "Sketches," issued soon after he left college, was very favourably noticed in the best periodicals of the time. He also edited "The Token," a wellknown annuary, for 1828; and about the same period published, in several volumes, "The Legendary," and established "The American Monthly Magazine." To this periodical several young writers, who afterward became distinguished, were contributors; but the articles by its editor, constituting a large portion of each number, gave to the work its character, and were of all its contents the most popular. In 1830 it was united to the "New York Mirror," of which Mr. WILLIS became one of the conductors; and he soon after sailed for Europe, to be absent several years. He travelled over Great Britain, and the most interesting portions of the continent, mixing largely in society, and visiting every thing worthy of his regard as a man of letters, or as an American; and his "First Impressions" were given in his letters to the "Mirror," in which he described, with remarkable spirit and fidelity, and in a style peculiarly graceful and elegant, scenery and incidents, and social life among the polite classes in Europe. His letters were collected and republished in London, under the title of "Pencillings by the Way," and violently attacked in several of the leading periodicals, ostensibly on account of their too great freedom of personal detail. Captain MARRYAT, Who was at the time editing a monthly magazine, wrote an article, characteristically gross and malignant, which led to a hostile meeting at Chatham, and Mr. LOCKHART, in the "Quarterly Review," published a "criticism" alike illiberal and unfair. WILLIS perhaps erred in giving to the public dinner-table conversations, and some of his descriptions of manners; but Captain MARRYAT himself is not undeserving of censure on account of the "personalities" in his writings; and for other reasons he could not have been the most suitable person in England to avenge the wrong it was alleged Mr. WILLIS had offered to society. That the author of "Peter's Letters to Mr. his Kinsfolk," a work which is filled with far more reprehensible personal allusions than are to be found in the Pencillings," should have ventured to attack the work on this ground, may excite surprise among those who have not observed that the "Quarterly Review" is spoken of with little reverence in the letters of the American traveller. In 1835 Mr. WILLIS was married in England. He soon after published his "Inklings of Adventure," a collection of tales and sketches originally written for a London magazine, under the signature of "Philip Slingsby;" and in 1837 he returned to the United States, and retired to his beautiful estate on the Susquehanna, named "Glenmary," in compliment to one of the most admirable wives that ever gladdened a poet's solitude. In the early part of 1839, he became one of the editors of "The Corsair," a literary gazette, and in the autumn of that year went again to London, where, in the following winter, he published his "Loiterings of Travel," in three volumes, and "Two Ways of Dying for a Husband," comprising the plays "Bianca Visconti," and "Tortesa the Usurer." In 1840 appeared the illustrated edition of his poems, and his "Letters from Under a Bridge," and he retired a second time to his seat in western New York, where he now resides. Besides the works already mentioned, he is the author of 66 American Scenery," and of "Ireland,"--two works illustrated in a splendid manner by BARTLETT,--and of numerous papers in the reviews, magazines, and other periodicals. The prose and poetry of Mr WILLIS are alike distinguished for exquisite finish and melody. His language is pure, varied, and rich; his imagination brilliant, and his wit of the finest quality. Many of his descriptions of natural scenery are written pictures; and no other author has represented with equal vivacity and truth the manners of the age. His dramatic poems have been the most successful works of their kind produced in America. They exhibit a deep acquaintance with the common sympathies and passions, and are as remarkable as his other writings for affluence of language and imagery, and descriptive power. His leading characteristics are essentially different from those of his contemporaries. DANA and BRYANT are the teachers of a high, religious philosophy; HALLECK and HOLMES excel in humour and delicate satire; LONGFELLOW has a fine imagination and is unequalled as an artist; but WILLIS is more than any other the poet of society familiar with the secret springs of action in social life, and moved himself by the same influences which guide his fellows. His genius is various: "Parrhasius," "Spring," "Hagar in the Wilderness," "The Annoyer," and other pieces, present strong contrasts; and they are alike excellent. MELANIE. I. I STOOD on yonder rocky brow, My life was then untouch'd of pain; And, as the breeze that stirr'd my hair, My spirit freshen'd in the sky, Yon wondrous temple crests the rock, But though mine eye will kindle still In looking on the shapes of art, The link is lost that sent the thrill, And still I loved the rosy hours; Like bells by their own echo rung, And well could hide the look of sadness, I knew, at least, the trick of gladness, "T were idle to remember now, Had I the heart, my thwarted schemes. I bear beneath this alter'd brow The ashes of a thousand dreams: Whose wells I had not tasted deep; For every fount save one-the sweetest-and the last. The last-the last! My friends were dead, The sea had lock'd its hiding wave; * The story is told during a walk around the Cascatelles of Tivoli. And still, I say, I did not slack When plague and ruin bid him flee, My sister claim'd no kinsman's care; The eye stole upward unaware— And knew I, with prophetic heart, II. We came to Italy. I felt A yearning for its sunny sky; As swept its first warm breezes by. To see my sister's new delight; To Pæstum, in its purple light, By deathless lairs in solemn Rome, We loiter'd like the impassion'd sun, And made a home of every oneRuin, and fane, and waterfall And crown'd the dying day with glory, If we had seen, since morn, but one old haunt of We story. e came, with spring, to Tivoli. My sister loved its laughing air And merry waters, though, for me, My heart was in another key; And sometimes I could scarcely bear The mirth of their eternal play, I sigh'd for melancholy Rome. Perhaps--the fancy haunts me still'Twas but a boding sense of ill. It was a morn, of such a day As might have dawn'd on Eden first, Early in the Italian May. Vine-leaf and flower had newly burst, And, on the burden of the air, The breath of buds came faint and rare; And through the clefts of newer green Troop'd on the merry village-girls; The low-slouch'd hat was backward thrown, And clasped hands upon my arm, And bless'd life's mere and breathing charm, In happiness and idleness We wander'd down yon sunny vale,- A laugh rings merry in mine ear! O, GOD! my sister once was here! That broken fountain, running o'er He gave the greeting of the morn With voice that linger'd in mine ear. By those two words, so calm and clear. And he was pale and marble fair; And loved him e'er the echo died: We sat and watch'd the fount a while Of sympathy, we saunter'd on; And, in this changefulness of mood, We turn'd where VARRO's villa stood, (Whose hurrying waters, wild and white, I chanced to turn my eyes away, He said and dropp'd his earnest eyes— "Forgive me! but I dream'd of thee!" His sketch, the while, was in my hand, And, for the lines I look'd to traceA torrent by a palace spann'd, Half-classic and half-fairy-landI only found-my sister's face! III. Our life was changed. Another love She who had smiled for me alone- It seem'd to me the very skies Of radiant beauty seem'd to be But as she loved them, hour by hour, The selfishness of earth above, He sleeps who guards a brother's loveThough to a sister's present weal The deep devotion far transcends The utmost that the soul can feel For even its own higher ends— Though next to Gon, and more than heaven For his own sake, he loves her, even"T is difficult to see another, A passing stranger of a day, Who never hath been friend or brother, Pluck with a look her heart away, To see the fair, unsullied brow, Ne'er kiss'd before without a prayer, Upon a stranger's bosom now, Who for the boon took little care, Who is enrich'd, he knows not why; Who suddenly hath found a treasure Golconda were too poor to buy; And he, perhaps, too cold to measure, (Albeit, in her forgetful dream, The unconscious idol happier seem,) "T is difficult at once to crush The rebel mourner in the breast, To press the heart to earth, and hush And difficult--the eye gets dim- I thank sweet MARY Mother now, Who gave me strength those pangs to hide, And touch'd mine eyes and lit my brow To one who ask'd so much of me,— And mused if she would happier be; And, hour by hour, and day by day, I loved the gentle painter more, And I began to watch his mood, And on my mind would sometimes press What spells the stirring heart may movePYGMALION's statue never seem'd More changed with life, than she with love. The pearl-tint of the early dawn Flush'd into day-spring's rosy hue; The meek, moss-folded bud of morn Flung open to the light and dew; The first and half-seen star of even Wax'd clear amid the deepening heavenSimilitudes perchance may be; But these are changes oftener seen, And do not image half to me My sister's change of face and mien. "T was written in her very air, That love had pass'd and enter'd there. IV. A calm and lovely paradise Is Italy, for minds at ease. The sadness of its sunny skies Weighs not upon the lives of these. The ruin'd aisle, the crumbling fane, The broken column, vast and proneIt may be joy, it may be pain, Amid such wrecks to walk alone; The saddest man will sadder be, The gentlest lover gentler there, As if, whate'er the spirit's key, It strengthen'd in that solemn air. The heart soon grows to mournful things; And even her majestic trees And drew their sap all kingly yet! Is broken from some mighty thought, And sculptures in the dust still breathe The fire with which their lines were wrought, And sunder'd arch, and plunder'd tomb Still thunder back the echo, "Rome!" Yet gayly o'er Egeria's fount The ivy flings its emerald veil, And soft, from Caracalla's Baths, The herdsman's song comes down the breeze, While climb his goats the giddy paths To grass-grown architrave and frieze; And gracefully Albano's hill Curves into the horizon's line, And sweetly sings that classic rill, And fairly stands that nameless shrine; And here, O, many a sultry noon And starry eve, that happy June, Came ANGELO and MELANIE, And earth for us was all in tuneFor while Love talk'd with them, Hope walk'd apart with me! V. I shrink from the embitter'd close "Tis long since I have waked my woes- My brain feels warm with starting tears, And I shall weep-but heed not thou! "T will soothe a while the ache of years. The heart transfix'd-worn out with griefWill turn the arrow for relief. The painter was a child of shame! It stirr'd my pride to know it first, And thought, alas! I knew the worst, A high-born Conti was his mother, The Roman hid his daughter's shame And gave the boy a painter's nameAnd little else to live withal! And, with a noble's high desires Forever mounting in his heart, The boy consumed with hidden fires, And sometimes at St. Mona's shrine, The voice that told its bitter tale The demon in my bosom died! VI. St. Mona's morning mass was done; The shrine-lamps struggled with the day; And, rising slowly, one by one, Stole the last worshippers away. The organist play'd out the hymn, The incense, to St. MARY Swung, |