Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE WIFE'S APPPEAL, by NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE WIFE'S APPPEAL, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: He sat and read. A book with silver clasps
Last Line: Frighted with calumny! -- and this is fame!
Subject(s): Marriage; Pride; Weddings; Husbands; Wives; Self-esteem; Self-respect


HE sat and read. A book with silver clasps,
All gorgeous with illuminated lines
Of gold and crimson, lay upon a frame
Before him. 'Twas a volume of old time;
And in it were fine mysteries of the stars
Solved with a cunning wisdom, and strange thoughts,
Half prophecy, half poetry, and dreams
Clearer than truth, and speculations wild
That touch'd the secrets of your very soul,
They were so based on Nature. With a face
Glowing with thought, he pored upon the book.
The cushions of an Indian loom lay soft
Beneath his limbs, and, as he turn'd the page,
The sunlight, streaming through the curtain's fold,
Fell with a rose-tint on his jewell'd hand;
And the rich woods of the quaint furniture
Lay deepening their vein'd colors in the sun,
And the stain'd marbles on the pedestals
Stood like a silent company -- Voltaire,
With an infernal sneer upon his lips;
And Socrates, with godlike human love
Stamp'd on his countenance; and orators,
Of times gone by that made them; and old bards,
And Medicean Venus, half divine.
Around the room were shelves of dainty lore,
And rich old pictures hung upon the walls
Where the slant light fell on them; and wrought gems,
Medallions, rare mosaics, and antiques
From Herculaneum, the niches fill'd;
And on a table of enamel, wrought
With a lost art in Italy, there lay
Prints of fair women, and engravings rare,
And a new poem, and a costly toy;
And in their midst a massive lamp of bronze
Burning sweet spices constantly. Asleep
Upon the carpet couch'd a graceful hound,
Of a rare breed, and, as his master gave
A murmur of delight at some sweet line,
He raised his slender head, and kept his eye
Upon him till the pleasant smile had pass'd
From his mild lips, and then he slept again.
The light beyond the crimson folds grew dusk,
And the clear letters of the pleasant book
Mingled and blurr'd, and the lithe hound rose up,
And, with his earnest eye upon the door,
Listen'd attentively. It came as wont --
The fall of a light foot upon the stair --
And the fond animal sprang out to meet
His mistress, and caress the ungloved hand,
He seem'd to know was beautiful. She stoop'd
Gracefully down and touch'd his silken ears
As she pass'd in -- then, with a tenderness,
Half playful and half serious, she knelt
Upon the ottoman and press'd her lips
Upon her husband's forehead.
* * * * * * * * *
She rose and put the curtain-folds aside
From the high window, and look'd out upon
The shining stars in silence. "Look they not
Like Paradises to thine eye?" he said --
But, as he spoke, a tear fell through the light --
And -- starting from his seat -- he folded her
Close to his heart, and -- with unsteady voice --
Ask'd -- if she was not happy. A faint smile
Broke through her tears; and pushing off the hair
From his broad forehead, she held back his head
With her white hand, and, gazing on his face,
Gave to her heart free utterance: --

"Happy? -- yes, dearest! -- blest
Beyond the limit of my wildest dream --
Too bright, indeed, my blessings ever seem;
There lives not in my breast
One of Hope's promises by Love unkept,
And yet -- forgive me, Ernest -- I have wept.

"How shall I speak of sadness,
And seem not thankless to my God and thee?
How can the lightest wish but seem to be
The very whim of madness?
Yet, oh, there is a boon thy love beside --
And I will ask it of thee -- in my pride!

"List, while my boldness lingers!
If thou hadst won yon twinkling star to hear thee --
If thou couldst bid the rainbow's curve bend near thee --
If thou couldst charm thy fingers
To weave for thee the sunset's tent of gold --
Wouldst in thine own heart treasure it untold?

"If thou hadst Ariel's gift,
To course the veined metals of the earth --
If thou couldst wind a fountain to its birth --
If thou couldst know the drift
Of the lost cloud that sail'd into the sky --
Wouldst keep it for thine own unanswer'd eye?

"It is thy life and mine! --
Thou, in thyself -- and I in thee -- misprison
Gifts like a circle of bright stars unrisen --
For thou whose mind should shine,
Eminent as a planet's light, art here --
Moved with the starting of a woman's tear!

"I have told o'er thy powers
In secret, as a miser tells his gold;
I know thy spirit calm, and true, and bold:
I've watch'd thy lightest hours,
And seen thee, in the wildest flush of youth,
Touch'd with the instinct ravishment of truth.

"Thou hast the secret strange
To read that hidden book, the human heart;
Thou hast the ready writer's practised art;
Thou hast the thought to range
The broadest circles Intellect hath ran --
And thou art God's best work -- an honest man!

"And yet thou slumberest here
Like a caged bird that never knew its pinions,
And others track in glory the dominions
Where thou hast not thy peer --
Setting their weaker eyes unto the sun,
And plucking honor that thou shouldst have won.

"Oh, if thou lovedst me ever,
Ernest, my husband! -- if th' idolatry
That lets go heaven to fling its all on thee --
If to dismiss thee never
In dream or prayer, have given me aught to claim --
Heed me -- oh, heed me! and awake to fame!"

Her lips
Closed with an earnest sweetness, and she sat
Gazing into his eyes as if her look
Search'd their dark orbs for answer. The warm blood
Into his temples mounted, and across
His countenance the flush of passionate thoughts
Pass'd with irresolute quickness. He rose up
And paced the dim room rapidly awhile,
Calming his troubled mind; and then he came
And laid his hand upon her orbed brow,
And in a voice of heavenly tenderness
Answer'd her: --

"Before I knew thee, Mary,
Ambition was my angel. I did hear
Forever its witch'd voices in mine ear;
My days were visionary --
My nights were like the slumbers of the mad --
And every dream swept o'er me glory-clad.

"I read the burning letters
Of warlike pomp, on History's page, alone;
I counted nothing the struck widow's moan;
I heard no clank of fetters;
I only felt the trumpet's stirring blast,
And lean-eyed Famine stalk'd unchallenged past!

"I heard with veins of lightning
The utterance of the Statesman's word of power --
Binding and loosing nations in an hour --
But, while my eye was bright'ning,
A mask'd detraction breathed upon his fame,
And a cursed serpent slimed his written name.

"The Poet rapt mine ears
With the transporting music that he sung.
With fibres from his life his lyre he strung,
And bathed the world in tears --
And then he turn'd away to muse apart,
And Scorn stole after him -- and broke his heart!

"Yet here and there I saw
One who did set the world at calm defiance,
And press right onward with a bold reliance;
And he did seem to awe
The very shadows pressing on his breast,
And, with a strong heart, held himself at rest.

"And then I look'd again --
And he had shut the door upon the crowd,
And on his face he lay and groan'd aloud --
Wrestling with hidden pain;
And in her chamber sat his wife in tears,
And his sweet babes grew sad with whisper'd fears.

"And so I turn'd sick-hearted
From the bright cup away, and, in my sadness,
Search'd mine own bosom for some spring of gladness;
And lo! a fountain started
Whose waters even in death flow calm and fast,
And my wild fever-thirst was slaked at last.

"And then I met thee, Mary,
And felt how love may into fulness pour,
Like light into a fountain running o'er:
And I did hope to vary
My life but with surprises sweet as this --
A dream -- but for thy waking -- fill'd with bliss.

"Yet now I feel my spirit
Bitterly stirr'd, and -- nay, lift up thy brow!
It is thine own voice echoing to thee now,
And thou didst pray to hear it --
I must unto my work and my stern hours!
Take from my room thy harp, and books, and flowers!
* * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * A year --
And in his room again he sat alone.
His frame had lost its fulness in that time;
His manly features had grown sharp and thin,
And from his lips the constant smile had faded.
Wild fires had burn'd the languor from his eye:
The lids look'd fever'd, and the brow was bent
With an habitual frown. He was much changed.
His chin was resting on his clenched hand,
And with his foot he beat upon the floor,
Unconsciously, the time of a sad tune.
Thoughts of the past prey'd on him bitterly.
He had won power and held it. He had walk'd
Steadily upward in the eye of Fame,
And kept his truth unsullied -- but his home
Had been invaded by envenom'd tongues;
His wife -- his spotless wife -- had been assail'd
By slander, and his child had grown afraid
To come to him -- his manner was so stern.
He could not speak beside his own hearth freely.
His friends were half estranged, and vulgar men
Presumed upon their services and grew
Familiar with him. He'd small time to sleep,
And none to pray; and, with his heart in fetters,
He bore harsh insults silently, and bow'd
Respectfully to men who knew he loathed them!
And, when his heart was eloquent with truth,
And love of country, and an honest zeal
Burn'd for expression, he could find no words
They would not misinterpret with their lies.
What were his many honors to him now?
The good half doubted, falsehood was so strong --
His home was hateful with its cautious fears --
His wife lay trembling on his very breast
Frighted with calumny! -- And this is FAME!





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