 | [Poems by Fields in] The poets of Portsmouth |  |
101
SONG IN A DREAM.
Winter rose-leaves, silver-white,
Drifting o'er our darling's bed,—
He's asleep, withdrawn from sight,—
All his little prayers are said,
And he droops his shining head.
Drifting o'er our darling's bed,—
He's asleep, withdrawn from sight,—
All his little prayers are said,
And he droops his shining head.
Winter rose-leaves, falling still,
Go and waken his sad eyes,
Touch his pillowed rest, until
He shall start with glad surprise,
And from slumber sweet arise!
Go and waken his sad eyes,
Touch his pillowed rest, until
He shall start with glad surprise,
And from slumber sweet arise!
104
TO MY LITTLE FRIEND AT THE SOUTH END.
Dear Child! what thought or word of mine
Is worthy thy first Valentine?
Those sweet blue eyes, thy witching smile,
(That angel hearts might well beguile,)
Have claims to win from deeper chords
A strain beyond my simple words.
Is worthy thy first Valentine?
Those sweet blue eyes, thy witching smile,
(That angel hearts might well beguile,)
Have claims to win from deeper chords
A strain beyond my simple words.
What shall I wish thee, Baby, fair?
All choicest gifts?—Heaven's kindly care?
Beauty thou hast: a world of love,
Pure as the purest born above,
Lies sleeping in that little face,
In mild repose, in infant grace.
All choicest gifts?—Heaven's kindly care?
Beauty thou hast: a world of love,
Pure as the purest born above,
Lies sleeping in that little face,
In mild repose, in infant grace.
Ah! dearest child! we'll pray that thou
Mayst always smile on us as now;
That years may bring thee added charms;
That love may shield thy path from harms;
And all that's best and bright below
Around thy life-long journey flow.
Mayst always smile on us as now;
That years may bring thee added charms;
That love may shield thy path from harms;
And all that's best and bright below
Around thy life-long journey flow.
So take, Therese, the song I bring;
And when thou'rt old enough to sing,
And pass me by, on some spring day,
When all my locks are dangling gray,
(If haply, far away, my head
Is not then pillowed with the dead,)
Forget not him whose lips to thine
Were pledged to write this Valentine!
And when thou'rt old enough to sing,
And pass me by, on some spring day,
When all my locks are dangling gray,
(If haply, far away, my head
Is not then pillowed with the dead,)
Forget not him whose lips to thine
Were pledged to write this Valentine!
105
MARIAN IN HER CELL.
After the Murder.
You looked across the meadows
At the red sun in the west,
And the wood was full of shadows;
But my head lay on your breast,
And your words were low and sweet,
And our hearts in music beat.
At the red sun in the west,
And the wood was full of shadows;
But my head lay on your breast,
And your words were low and sweet,
And our hearts in music beat.
You spoke,—I only listened,—
(Blest hours without alloy!)
You sang,—my tear-drops glistened,—
I was dumb and blind with joy.
Could I hear your bridal bell—
You in Heaven, and I in Hell!
(Blest hours without alloy!)
You sang,—my tear-drops glistened,—
I was dumb and blind with joy.
Could I hear your bridal bell—
You in Heaven, and I in Hell!
Could I stop the cursèd blade,
At your throat so warm and white;
Where my loving fingers played
With the moonlight through the night?
Could I think, and hold the steel!
Could I pause, and live to feel!
At your throat so warm and white;
Where my loving fingers played
With the moonlight through the night?
Could I think, and hold the steel!
Could I pause, and live to feel!
By the hallowed word of God
There is Murder on your soul!
As I knelt upon the sod
Where the death-black waters roll,
I could hear the angry flood
Calling, hoarsely, “Blood for Blood!”
There is Murder on your soul!
As I knelt upon the sod
Where the death-black waters roll,
I could hear the angry flood
Calling, hoarsely, “Blood for Blood!”
| [Poems by Fields in] The poets of Portsmouth | |