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; Where feebly comes the mournful roar Of buffeting wind and surging tide Through many a room and corridor. --Full on their window the moon’s ray Makes their chamber as bright as day. It shines upon the blank white walls, And on the snowy pillow falls, And on two angel-heads doth play Turned to each other; the eyes closed, The lashes on the cheeks reposed. Round each sweet brow the cap close-set Hardly lets peep the golden hair; Through the soft-opened lips, the air Scarcely moves the coverlet. One little wandering arm is thrown At random on the counterpane, And often the fingers close in haste As if their baby-owner chased The butterflies again. This stir they have, and this alone; But else they are so still! --Ah, tired madcaps! you lie still; But were you at the window now, To look forth on the fairy sight Of your illumined haunts by night, To see the park-glades where you play Far lovelier than they are by day, To see the sparkle on the eaves, And upon every giant-bough Of those old oaks, whose wet red leaves Are jewelled with bright drops of rain,-- How would your voices run again! And far beyond the sparkling trees Of the castle-park, one sees The bare heaths spreading, clear as day, Moor behind moor, far, far away, Into the heart of Brittany. And here and there, locked by the land, Long inlets of smooth glittering sea,