Three Sunsets and Other Poems — Beatrice

BEATRICE.

In her eyes is the living light Of a wanderer to earth From a far celestial height: Summers five are all the span-- Summers five since Time began To veil in mists of human night A shining angel-birth.

Does an angel look from her eyes?

Will she suddenly spring away, And soar to her home in the skies?

Beatrice!

Blessing and blessed to be!

Beatrice!

Still, as I gaze on thee, Visions of two sweet maids arise, Whose life was of yesterday: Of a Beatrice pale and stern, With the lips of a dumb despair, With the innocent eyes that yearn-- Yearn for the young sweet hours of life, Far from sorrow and far from strife, For the happy summers, that never return, When the world seemed good and fair: Of a Beatrice glorious, bright-- Of a sainted, ethereal maid, Whose blue eyes are deep fountains of light, Cheering the poet that broodeth apart, Filling with gladness his desolate heart, Like the moon when she shines thro' a cloudless night On a world of silence and shade.

And the visions waver and faint, And the visions vanish away That my fancy delighted to paint-- She is here at my side, a living child, With the glowing cheek and the tresses wild, Nor death-pale martyr, nor radiant saint, Yet stainless and bright as they.

For I think, if a grim wild beast Were to come from his charnel-cave, From his jungle-home in the East-- Stealthily creeping with bated breath, Stealthily creeping with eyes of death-- He would all forget his dream of the feast, And crouch at her feet a slave.

She would twine her hand in his mane: She would prattle in silvery tone, Like the tinkle of summer-rain-- Questioning him with her laughing eyes, Questioning him with a glad surprise, Till she caught from those fierce eyes again The love that lit her own.

And be sure, if a savage heart, In a mask of human guise, Were to come on her here apart-- Bound for a dark and a deadly deed, Hurrying past with pitiless speed-- He would suddenly falter and guiltily start At the glance of her pure blue eyes.

Nay, be sure, if an angel fair, A bright seraph undefiled, Were to stoop from the trackless air, Fain would she linger in glad amaze-- Lovingly linger to ponder and gaze, With a sister's love and a sister's care, On the happy, innocent child.

_Dec.

4, 1862. _ [Illustration] STOLEN WATERS.