Three Sunsets and Other Poems Part 2

He stept so lightly to the land, All in his manly pride: He kissed her cheek, he clasped her hand; Yet still she glanced aside.

"Too gay he seems," she darkly dreams, "Too gallant and too gay, To think of me--poor simple me-- When he is far away!"

"I bring my Love this goodly pearl Across the seas," he said: "A gem to deck the dearest girl That ever sailor wed!"

She holds it tight: her eyes are bright: Her throbbing heart would say "He thought of me--he thought of me-- When he was far away!"

The ship has sailed into the West: Her ocean-bird is flown: A dull dead pain is in her breast, And she is weak and lone: But there's a smile upon her face, A smile that seems to say "He'll think of me--he'll think of me-- When he is far away!

"Though waters wide between us glide, Our lives are warm and near: No distance parts two faithful hearts-- Two hearts that love so dear: And I will trust my sailor-lad, For ever and a day, To think of me--to think of me-- When he is far away!"

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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._

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STOLEN WATERS.

The light was faint, and soft the air That breathed around the place; And she was lithe, and tall, and fair, And with a wayward grace Her queenly head she bare.

With glowing cheek, with gleaming eye, She met me on the way: My spirit owned the witchery Within her smile that lay: I followed her, I knew not why.

The trees were thick with many a fruit, The gra.s.s with many a flower: My soul was dead, my tongue was mute, In that accursed hour.

And, in my dream, with silvery voice, She said, or seemed to say, "Youth is the season to rejoice--"

I could not choose but stay: I could not say her nay.

She plucked a branch above her head, With rarest fruitage laden: "Drink of the juice, Sir Knight," she said: "'Tis good for knight and maiden."

Oh, blind mine eye that would not trace-- Oh, deaf mine ear that would not heed-- The mocking smile upon her face, The mocking voice of greed!

I drank the juice; and straightway felt A fire within my brain: My soul within me seemed to melt In sweet delirious pain.

"Sweet is the stolen draught," she said: "Hath sweetness stint or measure?

Pleasant the secret h.o.a.rd of bread: What bars us from our pleasure?"

"Yea, take we pleasure while we may,"

I heard myself replying.

In the red sunset, far away, My happier life was dying: My heart was sad, my voice was gay.

And unawares, I knew not how, I kissed her dainty finger-tips, I kissed her on the lily brow, I kissed her on the false, false lips-- That burning kiss, I feel it now!

"True love gives true love of the best: Then take," I cried, "my heart to thee!"

The very heart from out my breast I plucked, I gave it willingly: Her very heart she gave to me-- Then died the glory from the west.

In the gray light I saw her face, And it was withered, old, and gray; The flowers were fading in their place, Were fading with the fading day.

Forth from her, like a hunted deer, Through all that ghastly night I fled, And still behind me seemed to hear Her fierce unflagging tread; And scarce drew breath for fear.

Yet marked I well how strangely seemed The heart within my breast to sleep: Silent it lay, or so I dreamed, With never a throb or leap.

For hers was now my heart, she said, The heart that once had been mine own: And in my breast I bore instead A cold, cold heart of stone.

So grew the morning overhead.

The sun shot downward through the trees His old familiar flame: All ancient sounds upon the breeze From copse and meadow came-- But I was not the same.

They call me mad: I smile, I weep, Uncaring how or why: Yea, when one's heart is laid asleep, What better than to die?

So that the grave be dark and deep.

To die! To die? And yet, methinks, I drink of life, to-day, Deep as the thirsty traveler drinks Of fountain by the way: My voice is sad, my heart is gay.

When yestereve was on the wane, I heard a clear voice singing So sweetly that, like summer-rain, My happy tears came springing: My human heart returned again.

_"A rosy child, Sitting and singing, in a garden fair, The joy of hearing, seeing, The simple joy of being-- Or twining rosebuds in the golden hair That ripples free and wild.