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 "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.

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MELANIE.

I.

I STOOD on yonder rocky brow,*
And marvell'd at the Sybil's fane,
When I was not what I am now.

My life was then untouch'd of pain; And, as the breeze that stirr'd my hair,

My spirit freshen'd in the sky,
And all things that were true and fair
Lay closely to my loving eye,
With nothing shadowy between-
I was a boy of seventeen.

Yon wondrous temple crests the rock,
As light upon its giddy base,
As stirless with the torrent's shock,
As pure in its proportion'd grace,
And seems a thing of air, as then,
Afloat above this fairy glen;

But though mine eye will kindle still In looking on the shapes of art,

The link is lost that sent the thrill,
Like lightning, instant to my heart.
And thus may break, before we die,
The electric chain 'twixt soul and eye!
Ten years-like yon bright valley, sown
Alternately with weeds and flowers-
Had swiftly, if not gayly, flown,

And still I loved the rosy hours;
And if there lurk'd within my breast

Some nerve that had been overstrung And quiver'd in my hours of rest,

Like bells by their own echo rung, I was with Hope a masker yet,

And well could hide the look of sadness,
And, if my heart would not forget,

I knew, at least, the trick of gladness,
And when another sang the strain,
I mingled in the old refrain.

"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:
Some wrought of wild Ambition's fingers,
Some colour'd of Love's pencil well,
But none of which a shadow lingers,
And none whose story I could tell.
Enough, that when I climb'd again
To Tivoli's romantic steep,
Life had no joy, and scarce a pain,

Whose wells I had not tasted deep;
And from my lips the thirst had pass'd

For every fount save one-the sweetest-and the

last.

The last the last! My friends were dead, Or false; my mother in her grave; Above my father's honour'd head

The sea had lock'd its hiding wave; Ambition had but foil'd my grasp, And Love had perish'd in my clasp;

* The story is told during a walk around the Cascatelles of Tivoli.

And still, I say, I did not slack
My love of life, and hope of pleasure,
But gather'd my affections back;
And, as the miser hugs his treasure,

When plague and ruin bid him flee,
I closer clung to mine-my loved, lost MELANIE!
The last of the DE BREVERN race,

My sister claim'd no kinsman's care;
And, looking from each other's face,

The eye stole upward unaware-
For there was naught whereon to lean
Each other's heart and heaven between-
Yet that was world enough for me,
And, for a brief, but blessed while,
There seem'd no care for MELANIE,
If she could see her brother smile;
But life, with her, was at the flow,
And every wave went sparkling higher,
While mine was ebbing, fast and low,
From the same shore of vain desire,

And knew I, with prophetic heart,
That we were wearing aye insensibly apart.

II.

We came to Italy. I felt

A yearning for its sunny sky;
My very spirit seem'd to melt

As swept its first warm breezes by.
From lip and cheek a chilling mist,
From life and soul a frozen rime
By every breath seem'd softly kiss'd:
GOD's blessing on its radiant clime!
It was an endless joy to me

To see my sister's new delight;
From Venice, in its golden sea,

To Pæstum, in its purple light,
By sweet Val d'Arno's tinted hills,
In Vallombrosa's convent gloom,
Mid Terni's vale of singing rills,

By deathless lairs in solemn Rome,
In gay Palermo's "Golden Shell,"
At Arethusa's hidden well,

We loiter'd like the impassion'd sun,
That slept so lovingly on all,

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

story.

We 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,

And, like a child that longs for home, When weary of its holiday,

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, far in the transparent sky,
The small, earth-keeping birds were seen,
Soaring deliriously high;

And through the clefts of newer green

Yon waters dash'd their living pearls; And, with a gayer smile and bow,

Troop'd on the merry village-girls;

And, from the Contadina's brow,

The low-slouch'd hat was backward thrown, With air that scarcely seem'd his own; And MELANIE, with lips apart,

And clasped hands upon my arm, Flung open her impassion'd heart,

And bless'd life's mere and breathing charm, And sang old songs, and gather'd flowers, And passionately bless'd once more life's thrilling hours.

In happiness and idleness

We wander'd down yon sunny vale,O, mocking eyes! a golden tress

Floats back upon this summer gale! A foot is tripping on the grass!

A laugh rings merry in mine ear! I see a bounding shadow pass!—

O, GOD! my sister once was here! Come with me, friend;-we rested yon; There grew a flower she pluck'd and wore; She sat upon this mossy stone!

That broken fountain, running o'er With the same ring, like silver bells; She listen'd to its babbling flow, And said, "Perhaps the gossip tells

Some fountain nymph's love-story now!" And, as her laugh rang clear and wild, A youth-a painter-pass'd and smiled.

He gave the greeting of the morn

With voice that linger'd in mine ear. I knew him sad and gentle born

By those two words, so calm and clear. His frame was slight, his forehead high, And swept by threads of raven hair; The fire of thought was in his eye,

And he was pale and marble fair; And Grecian chisel never caught The soul in those slight features wrought. I watch'd his graceful step of pride, Till hidden by yon leaning tree,

And loved him e'er the echo died:
And so, alas! did MELANIE!

We sat and watch'd the fount a while
In silence, but our thoughts were one;
And then arose, and, with a smile

Of sympathy, we saunter'd on;
And she by sudden fits was gay,
And then her laughter died away;

And, in this changefulness of mood, Forgotten now those May-day spells,

We turn'd where VARRO's villa stood, And, gazing on the Cascatelles,

(Whose hurrying waters, wild and white, Seem'd madden'd as they burst to light,)

I chanced to turn my eyes away,
And, lo! upon a bank alone,
The youthful painter, sleeping, lay!
His pencils on the grass were thrown,
And by his side a sketch was flung,
And near him as I lightly crept,
To see the picture as he slept,
Upon his feet he lightly sprung;
And, gazing with a wild surprise
Upon the face of MELANIE,

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-land

I only found-my sister's face!

III.

Our life was changed. Another love
In its lone woof began to twine;
But, ah! the golden thread was wove
Between my sister's heart and mine!
She who had lived for me before-

She who had smiled for me alone-
Would live and smile for me no more!
The echo to my heart was gone!

It seem'd to me the very skies
Had shone through those averted eyes;

The air had breathed of balm-the flower

Of radiant beauty seem'd to be

But as she loved them, hour by hour,
And murmur'd of that love to me!
O, though it be so heavenly high

The selfishness of earth above,
That, of the watchers in the sky,

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 endsThough 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
Its bitter jealousy to rest,--

And difficult-the eye gets dim-
The lip wants power to smile on him!

I thank sweet MARY Mother now,

Who gave me strength those pangs to hide,

And touch'd mine eyes and lit my brow
With sunshine that my heart belied.
I never spoke of wealth or race,

To one who ask'd so much of me,-
I look'd but in my sister's face,

And mused if she would happier be; And, hour by hour, and day by day,

I loved the gentle painter more,
And in the same soft measure wore
My selfish jealousy away;

And I began to watch his mood,
And feel, with her, love's trembling care,
And bade GoD bless him as he woo'd
That loving girl, so fond and fair,

And on my mind would sometimes press
A fear that she might love him less.
But MELANIE--I little dream'd

What spells the stirring heart may move-PYGMALION'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 prone-
It 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 Italy has not a breeze
But comes on melancholy wings;
And even her majestic trees
Stand ghost-like in the CESAR's home,
As if their conscious roots were set
In the old graves of giant Rome,

And drew their sap all kingly yet!
And every stone your feet beneath

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 flowers grow fair on Numa's mount,
And light-sprung arches span the dale,

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
Of my own melancholy tale.

"Tis long since I have waked my woes-
And nerve and voice together fail!
The throb beats faster at my brow,

My brain feels warm with starting tears, And I shall weep-but heed not thou!

"Twill 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,
For I had question'd but his name,

And thought, alas! I knew the worst,
Believing him unknown and poor.
His blood, indeed, was not obscure;

A high-born Conti was his mother,
But, though he knew one parent's face,
He never had beheld the other,
Nor knew his country or his race.

The Roman hid his daughter's shame
Within St. Mona's convent wall,
And gave the boy a painter's name—
And little else to live withal!

And, with a noble's high desires
Forever mounting in his heart,

The boy consumed with hidden fires,
But wrought in silence at his art;

And sometimes at St. Mona's shrine,
Worn thin with penance harsh and long,
He saw his mother's form divine,
And loved her for their mutual wrong.
I said my pride was stirr'd-but no!
The voice that told its bitter tale
Was touch'd so mournfully with wo,
And, as he ceased, all deathly pale,
He loosed the hand of MELANIE,
And gazed so gaspingly on me-

The demon in my bosom died!
"Not thine," I said, "another's guilt;
I break no hearts for silly pride;
So, kiss yon weeper if thou wilt!"

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,