Poems (Chitwood)/A Whispered Warning
A WHISPERED WARNING.
God save thee, dear one! thrills my heart with fearFor thine own precious sake. Put down the cup!Its beaded rim should never kiss thy lips—Those rosy lips whose full, dark cherry redFrom honeyed blossoms well might tempt the beeTo come and taste their sweetness. Art thou safe?I know not how to answer.
The wild birdMay hover o'er the net, and yet escapeTo charm the ear with singing; the shy fawnMay rest its dainty limbs and fall asleepBeneath the dingle's foliage, while, near by,Some savage beast is bellowing on the winds,Hungry for blood; and yet awake in timeTo gain the distant valley. The fair childMay walk along a deep, black precipiceAnd gather flowers, the while the glistening sandsShelve out 'neath every footfall, and yet beSleeping secure in its own bed, at night,Without a shadowed dream.
And so may'st thouWalk with a smile along the fearful pitBridged o'er with blossoms, listening to the songWhose syren tones have drawn so many downTo the deep grave of Death; and yet escape—But, oh the fearful chances!
My true friend,For love's sweet sake, beware! Thy noble stepMust never be unsteady; thy dark eyes,Whose glances thrill the heart, must never glareWith bloodshot brightness. Thine alluring voice,So deep and passionate, and so music-likeIn eloquence sublime, must never growHoarse with the serpent's sting.
To think of thee—Perfection's fair ideal realized—Falling within the pit where Ruin sitsFeeding upon her victims day and night,Is more than heart can bear. Frown not, my friend,And say thou art secure. I fear for theeWith a most jealous fear, and with a heartFilled to the brim with prayer, I ask for thee—While the blue sky is blazoned o'er with stars,While the white moon is softly sinking downInto her dewy bed of amethyst—Strength to resist temptation.
O'er thy heartLove's angel keeps her vigil. A soft hand,Light as a seraph's, leads thee on thy way;And may that way be pleasant as the pathOf velvet mosses in the meadow-landWhere runs the summer rill, until each waveRepeats, in whispered ripples, syllablesOf many a wordless poem, low and soft,Heard by the shy young birds and drowsy bees,And danced to by the zephyrs.