 | The poetical writings of Elizabeth Oakes Smith |  |
172
THE APPEAL.
I had rather have one kisse,
Childe waters of thy mouth;
Than I woulde have Cheshire and Lancashire bothe
That lye by north and south.
Old Ballad.
Childe waters of thy mouth;
Than I woulde have Cheshire and Lancashire bothe
That lye by north and south.
Old Ballad.
I came to thee in workday dress
And hair but plainly kempt,
For life is not all holyday,
From toil and care exempt;
And hair but plainly kempt,
For life is not all holyday,
From toil and care exempt;
I met thee oft with glowing cheek,
Thus love its tale will tell;
Though oft its after paleness told
Of hidden grief as well.
Thus love its tale will tell;
Though oft its after paleness told
Of hidden grief as well.
My eyes that drooped beneath thy glance
To hide their sense of bliss,
Let fall too oft the tears that tell
Of secret tenderness.
To hide their sense of bliss,
Let fall too oft the tears that tell
Of secret tenderness.
I sought for no bewildering lure
Thy senses to beguile,
But checked the woman playfulness,
The witching tone and smile.
Thy senses to beguile,
But checked the woman playfulness,
The witching tone and smile.
173
With household look and household word,
And frank as maidens meet;
I dared with earnest homely truth,
Thy manliness to greet.
And frank as maidens meet;
I dared with earnest homely truth,
Thy manliness to greet.
For oh! so much of truth was mine,
So much of love beside,
I wished in simple maidenhood
To be thy chosen bride.
So much of love beside,
I wished in simple maidenhood
To be thy chosen bride.
Alas! the russet robe no more
Of humble life may tell,
And thou dost say the velvet gear
Becomes my beauty well.
Of humble life may tell,
And thou dost say the velvet gear
Becomes my beauty well.
'T was thy dear hand upon my brow
That bound each sparkling gem,
But dearer far its slightest touch,
Than all the wealth of them.
That bound each sparkling gem,
But dearer far its slightest touch,
Than all the wealth of them.
Oh! tell me not of gorgeous robes,
Nor bind the jewel there;
And tell me not with those cold eyes,
That I am wondrous fair.
Nor bind the jewel there;
And tell me not with those cold eyes,
That I am wondrous fair.
I will not chide, I will not blame,
And yet the thought is here,
The thought so fraught with bitterness,
It yieldeth me no tear.
And yet the thought is here,
The thought so fraught with bitterness,
It yieldeth me no tear.
174
I gave thee tenderness too deep.
Too deep for aught but tears,
And thou wouldst teach the world's cold rule
Which learned, the heart but scars.
Too deep for aught but tears,
And thou wouldst teach the world's cold rule
Which learned, the heart but scars.
I gave thee all, the soul's deep trust,
Its truth by sorrow tried;
Nay start not thou, what hast thou given?
Alas! 'tis but thy pride.
Its truth by sorrow tried;
Nay start not thou, what hast thou given?
Alas! 'tis but thy pride.
Give back, give back the tenderness
That blest my simple love,
And call me as in those dear days,
Thine own, thy gentle dove.
That blest my simple love,
And call me as in those dear days,
Thine own, thy gentle dove.
| The poetical writings of Elizabeth Oakes Smith | |