Northern Star, And Warren And Bristol Gazette

Poetry

The following poem from the pen of Mr. Willis, editor of the "Boston Recorder," is the most beautiful picture of the human form, and the most correct delineation of the human passions, which we ever perused. The style, like that of all the productions of Mr. Willis, is excellent, and the language chaste. Whoever reads these lines we are confident, will admire them.

JEPTHAH'S DAUGHTER.

She stood before her father's gorgeous tent,
To listen to 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, reveal'd a shape
Praxiteles might worship. She had clasp'd
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 crest
Of a pomegranate blossom; and her neck,
Just where the cheek was meeting to its curve
With the unearthly beauty sometimes there
Was shaded, as if light had fallen off,
Its surface was so polish'd. She was quelling
Her light, quick breath, to hear: and the white rose
Scarce mov'd upon her bosom, as it swell'd
Like nothing but a lovely dream of light,
To meet the arching of her queenly neck.
Her countenance was radiant with love,-
She look'd a thing to die for. 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 been
A sister's idol; 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 pouring out
Through all earth's changes like a principle,
Chasten'd with reverence, and made more pure
By the world's 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 pour'd from far,
Like the deep murmur of a restless sea.
They came, as earthly conquerors always come,
With blood and splendor, revelry and wo.
The stately horse treads proudly-he hath bold
The brow of death, as well. The chariot wheels
Of warriors roll magnificently on-
Their weight hath crush'd the fallen.
Man is there-
Majestic, lordly man--with his sublime
And elevated brow, and godlike frame;
Lifting his crest in triumph---for his heel
Hath trod the dying like a wine-press down.
The mighty Jephthah led his warriors on
Thro' Mizpeh's streets. His helm was proudly set;
And his stern lip curl'd lightly, as if praise
Were for the hero's scorn. His step was firm,
But free as India's leopard; and his mail,
Whose shekels none in Israel might bear,
Was like a cedar's tassel on his frame.
His crest was Judah's kingliest. And the look
Of his dark, lofty eye, and bended brow
Might quell the lion. He led on; but thoughts
Seem'd gathering round which troubled him.
The veins
Grew visible upon his swarthy brow,
And his proud lip was press'd as if with pain.
He trod less firmly; and his restless eye
Glanc'd forward frequently, as if some ill
He dar'd not meet, were there. His home was near;
And men were thronging with that strange delight
They have in human passions, to observe
The struggle of his feelings with his pride.
He gaz'd intently forward. The tall firs
Before his tent were motionless. The leaves
Of the sweet aloe, and the clustering vines
Which half conceal'd his threshold met his eye
Unchang'd and beautiful: and one by one,
The balsam with its sweet-distilling stems,
And the Circassian rose, and all the crowd
Of silent and familiar things, stole up
Like the recovered passages of dreams.
He strode on rapidly. A moment more,
And he had reach'd his home; when lo; there sprang
One with a bounding footstep, and a brow
Of light, to meet him. O how beautiful!
Her dark eye flashing like a sun-lit gem-
And her luxuriant hair!-'twas like the sweep
Of a swift wing in visions. He stood still,
As if the sight had wither'd him. She threw
Her arms about his neck--he needed not,
She called him "Father"-but he answered not.
She stood and gaz'd upon him. Was he wroth?
There was no anger in that blood-shot eye.
Had sickness seiz'd him? She unclasped his helm,
And laid her white hand gently on his brow;
And the large veins felt stiff and hard like cords.
The touch arous'd him. He rais'd up his hands
And spoke the name of God, in agony.
She knew that he was stricken, then, and rush'd
Again into his arms: and with a flood
Of tears she could not bridle, sobb'd a prayer
That he would tell her of his wretchedness.
He told her-and a momentary flash
Shot o'er her countenance; and then the soul
Of Jephthah's daughter wakened, and she stood
Calmly and nobly up, and said 'twas well-
And she would die.

The sun had well nigh set.
The fire was on the altar; and the priest
Of the high God was there. A wasted man
Was stretching out his wither'd hands to Heav'n
As if he would have pray'd, but had no words.
And she who was to die, the calmest one
In Israel at that hour, stood up alone
And waited for the sun to set. Her face
Was pale, but very beautiful; her lip
Had a more delicate outline, and the tint
Was deeper: but her countenance was like
The majesty of angels.

The sun set--
And she was dead-but not by violence.