TRISTRAM.
Is my page here? Come, turn me to the fire!
Upon the window-panes the moon shines bright;
The wind is down; but she'll not come to-night.
Ah, no! she is asleep in Cornwall now,
Far hence; her dreams are fair, smooth is her brow.
Of me she recks not, nor my vain desire.
—I have had dreams, I have had dreams, my page,
Would take a score years from a strong man's age;
And with a blood like mine, will leave, I fear,
Scant leisure for a second messenger.
—My princess, art thou there? Sweet, 'tis too late!
To bed, and sleep! my fever is gone by;
To-night my page shall keep me company.
Where do the children sleep? kiss them for me!
Poor child, thou art almost as pale as I:
This comes of nursing long and watching late.
To bed—good night!
········
She left the gleam-lit fireplace,
She came to the bedside;
She took his hands in hers, her tears
Down on her slender fingers rained.
She raised her eyes upon his face,
Not with a look of wounded pride,
A look as if the heart complained;
Her look was like a sad embrace,—
The gaze of one who can divine
A grief, and sympathize.
Sweet flower! thy children's eyes
Are not more innocent than thine.
But they sleep in sheltered rest,
Like helpless birds in the warm nest,
