The Tri-Portrait.

'Twas a rich night in June. The air was all     Fragrance and balm, and the wet leaves were stirred     By the soft fingers of the southern wind,     And caught the light capriciously, like wings     Haunting the greenwood with a silvery sheen.     The stars might not be numbered, and the moon     Exceeding beautiful, went up in heaven,     And took her place in silence, and a hush,     Like the deep Sabbath of the night, came down     And rested upon nature. I was out     With three sweet sisters wandering, and my thoughts     Took color of the moonlight, and of them,     And I was calm and happy. Their deep tones,     Low in the stillness, and by that soft air     Melted to reediness, bore out, like song,     The language of high feelings, and I felt     How excellent is woman when she gives     To the fine pulses of her spirit way.     One was a noble being, with a brow     Ample and pure, and on it her black hair     Was parted, like a raven's wing on snow.     Her tone was low and sweet, and in her smile     You read intense affections. Her moist eye     Had a most rare benignity; her mouth,     Bland and unshadowed sweetness; and her face     Was full of that mild dignity that gives     A holiness to woman. She was one     Whose virtues blossom daily, and pour out     A fragrance upon all who in her path     Have a blest fellowship. I longed to be     Her brother, that her hand might lie upon     My forehead, and her gentle voice allay     The fever that is at my heart sometimes.     There was a second sister who might witch     An angel from his hymn. I cannot tell     The secret of her beauty. It is more     Than her slight penciled lip, and her arch eye     Laughing beneath its lashes, as if life     Were nothing but a merry mask; 'tis more     Than motion, though she moveth like a fay;     Or music, though her voice is like a reed     Blown by a low south wind; or cunning grace,     Though all she does is beautiful; or thought,     Or fancy, or a delicate sense, though mind     Is her best gift, and poetry her world,     And she will see strange beauty in a flower     As by a subtle vision. I care not     To know how she bewitches; 'tis enough     For me that I can listen to her voice     And dream rare dreams of music, or converse     Upon unwrit philosophy, till I     Am wildered beneath thoughts I cannot bound     And the red lip that breathes them.                                          On my arm     Leaned an unshadowed girl, who scarcely yet     Had numbered fourteen summers. I know not     How I shall draw her picture - the young heart     Has such a restlessness of change, and each     Of its wild moods so lovely! I can see     Her figure in its rounded beauty now,     With her half-flying step, her clustering hair     Bathing a neck like Hebe's, and her face     By a glad heart made radiant. She was full     Of the romance of girlhood. The fair world     Was like an unmarred Eden to her eye,     And every sound was music, and the tint     Of every cloud a silent poetry.     Light to thy path, bright creature! I would charm     Thy being if I could, that it should be     Ever as now thou dreamest, and flow on     Thus innocent and beautiful to heaven!     We walked beneath the full and mellow moon     Till the late stars had risen. It was not     In silence, though we did not seem to break     The hush with our low voices; but our thoughts     Stirred deeply at their sources; and when night     Divided us, I slumbered with a peace     Floating about my heart, which only comes     From high communion. I shall never see     That silver moon again without a crowd     Of gentle memories, and a silent prayer,     That when the night of life shall oversteal     Your sky, ye lovely sisters! there may be     A light as beautiful to lead you on.