Beatrice. Poem by Fidelia S T Hill

But once I saw her, with the auburn hair
In rich profusion, shading her pure cheek,
A cheek of beauty, and so sweetly fair,
In sooth it needed not the rose's streak. —
As thro' the clouds the morning light doth break
So beam'd the lustre of her radiant eye,
Her dimpled smile did eloquently speak,
You scarce could think of grief when she was nigh: —
Somewhat above the middle height was she,
Her form all loveliness, and symmetry!
She hung upon his arm, the warrior proud
And stern, who erst had many a battle brav'd,
His martial bearing was by all allow'd,
But beauty ne'er had his bold breast enslav'd,
(Though he had been where Cupid's banners wav'd,)
Until her graces, took his heart in thrall, —
Her gentle image, on that heart engraved,
No more he spoke of liberty withal: —
But sought the lovely girl, and she became
One with himself, in fortune, heart, and name.
There was a bridal, in the sweet Spring time,
With its proud train of equipages gay;
I heard the music of the Minster's chime,
And marked the sun-shine on that wedding-day,
And as the bride-maids lightly tripp'd away.
None at the altar, showed a form so light
As her young sister, in her rich array,
With the dark tresses, and the eye so bright,
While on her blushing cheek affection's tear
Said that she scarce could part with one so dear!
Another Spring smiled on the youthful bride,
And though the rosy moments on their wing
Saw her a mother, a fond husband's pride,
The joy of all, — yet did its breezes bring
A doom for her, which left them sorrowing; —
And the same hand that wove the bridal wreath
For her fair brow, did o'er her bosom fling
With bitter pangs the pallid flowers of death.
I heard a knell! — crowds with her bier past by,
Sad type methought, of man's felicity! —