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.