Complete Works of Lewis Carroll (131 page)

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.
 

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 grass with many a flower:

My soul was dead, my tongue was mute,

In that accursëd 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 hoard 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.

“A sweet pale child—

Wearily looking to the purple West—

Waiting the great For-ever

That suddenly shall sever

The cruel chains that hold her from her rest—

By earth-joys unbeguiled.

“An angel-child—

Gazing with living eyes on a dead face:

The mortal form forsaken,

That none may now awaken,

That lieth painless, moveless in her place,

As though in death she smiled!

“Be as a child—

So shalt thou sing for very joy of breath—

So shalt thou wait thy dying,

In holy transport lying—

So pass rejoicing through the gate of death,

In garment undefiled.”

Then call me what they will, I know

That now my soul is glad:

If this be madness, better so,

Far better to be mad,

Weeping or smiling as I go.

For if I weep, it is that now

I see how deep a loss is mine,

And feel how brightly round my brow

The coronal might shine,

Had I but kept mine early vow:

And if I smile, it is that now

I see the promise of the years—

The garland waiting for my brow,

That must be won with tears,

With pain—with death—I care not how.

May 9, 1862.
 

THE WILLOW-TREE.

The morn was bright, the steeds were light,

The wedding guests were gay:

Young Ellen stood within the wood

And watched them pass away.

She scarcely saw the gallant train:

The tear-drop dimmed her ee:

Unheard the maiden did complain

Beneath the Willow-Tree.

“Oh Robin, thou didst love me well,

Till, on a bitter day,

She came, the Lady Isabel,

And stole thy heart away.

My tears are vain: I live again

In days that used to be,

When I could meet thy welcome feet

Beneath the Willow-Tree.

“Oh Willow gray, I may not stay

Till Spring renew thy leaf;

But I will hide myself away,

And nurse a lonely grief.

It shall not dim Life’s joy for him:

My tears he shall not see:

While he is by, I’ll come not nigh

My weeping Willow-Tree.

“But when I die, oh let me lie

Beneath thy loving shade,

That he may loiter careless by,

Where I am lowly laid.

And let the white white marble tell,

If he should stoop to see,

‘Here lies a maid that loved thee well,

Beneath the Willow-Tree.’”

1859.