 | A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England |  |
323
TO SEE THEE SMILE AGAIN.
Dear Lizzie, when, in childhood's hour,
Whate'er my laws, you would rebel,
And I, who fancied age was power,
Would feel my little bosom swell
With anger infantine, because
My mimic frown unheeded was,
Our tiny tongues went very fast,
And mine—mine always went the last!
But when at length some childish jest
Upon my pouting lip would rise,
And wound my darling sister's breast,
And fill with tears her dear, dark eyes,—
Ashamed to own my fault to thee,
Yet grieved in heart thy grief to see,—
Rememberest thou how many a wile
I tried, thy sorrow to beguile?
Ah! even then I felt that Joy
Must flee my spirit, thine in pain,
And thought I'd give my prettiest toy
To see thee smile again!
Whate'er my laws, you would rebel,
And I, who fancied age was power,
Would feel my little bosom swell
With anger infantine, because
My mimic frown unheeded was,
Our tiny tongues went very fast,
And mine—mine always went the last!
But when at length some childish jest
Upon my pouting lip would rise,
And wound my darling sister's breast,
And fill with tears her dear, dark eyes,—
Ashamed to own my fault to thee,
Yet grieved in heart thy grief to see,—
Rememberest thou how many a wile
I tried, thy sorrow to beguile?
Ah! even then I felt that Joy
Must flee my spirit, thine in pain,
And thought I'd give my prettiest toy
To see thee smile again!
324
Dear Lizzie, in maturer years,
An angry word, or careless jest,
Too often now distils the tears
Of sorrow from thy gentle breast;
Yet, love, believe—thy sister's heart,
Whate'er its many errors be,
Would never lightly pain impart,
And least of all to thee!
An angry word, or careless jest,
Too often now distils the tears
Of sorrow from thy gentle breast;
Yet, love, believe—thy sister's heart,
Whate'er its many errors be,
Would never lightly pain impart,
And least of all to thee!
Oh! Passion's words are faithless things,
And Love disowns them ere they fall;
It is the reckless tongue that stings—
The tongue that knows not Reason's thrall.
Cold Satire's light and airy dart,
Its point, its poison, there receives;
And ere the weapon reach thy heart,
My own has felt the wound it gives!
And when I see thy dear lip curled,
And quivering with thy just disdain,
I sigh, and think I'd give the world
To see thee smile again!
And Love disowns them ere they fall;
It is the reckless tongue that stings—
The tongue that knows not Reason's thrall.
Cold Satire's light and airy dart,
Its point, its poison, there receives;
And ere the weapon reach thy heart,
My own has felt the wound it gives!
And when I see thy dear lip curled,
And quivering with thy just disdain,
I sigh, and think I'd give the world
To see thee smile again!
| A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England | |