Beatrice
My prophet-heart for thee foretells
The bliss that shall be born of pain,
And on my ear exultant swells
O'er conquered fate the victor-strain.
Though darkly now around thee throng
Ills that might make the boldest quail,
Still hope! — not always shall the wrong
O'er trampled truth and right prevail.
Doubt not the issue of the strife,
Be strong to wrestle with thy pain;
For thou shalt yet prevail, and life
Wear its old glory once again.
Confront the clouds with steadfast eye,
And lo! their gloom is flecked with light
While yonder, in the eastern sky,
The young dawn battles with the night.
Slowly the baffled dark retires —
Slowly the dawn, with widening sway,
Prevails, and soon his kindling fires
Shall culminate to perfect day.
Think what a wealth of love is thine!
The largess of the pure and good,
The trust, the sympathy divine
Of manhood and of womanhood!
Thy pathway shall be circled still
By starry souls whose faith serene
Can pierce the shades of present ill,
And grasp the guerdon yet unseen.
For linked to thine by holiest ties,
Nor time nor trial e'er can part,
By hopes and prayers and sympathies,
Is many a true and noble heart.
Nor hate's device nor falsehood's guile
Can shake their perfect trust in thee,
Nor cloud their faith that all the while
Good angels keep thee company.
Thou canst, through parting clouds, behold
The flash of many a radiant wing,
While silvery voices manifold
To thee of hope and courage sing.
Of hope — to lead thee still along
Through doubt's cold gloom to faith's repose;
Of courage — to endure, be strong,
And calmly triumph o'er thy foes.
Light, born of darkness, shall be thine;
Strength, from long struggling with the ill ;
From discord, peace; and love divine,
Thy soul's profoundest depths shall fill!
And in thy culminating bliss,
Made brighter by remembered wo,
Shalt thou at length, dear Beatrice,
The mission of all sorrow know.
- Title
- Beatrice
Part of Beatrice