Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/181

Rh 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,

On the castle's southern side;