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She strove to frown, but still her brow
Was innocent and mild;
And though her words were somewhat stern,
Their tones were sweet and wild.
"Cast not," she said, "a stranger's glance;
Not thus we us'd to greet,
We know each other well, although,
Of late we seldom meet.
I saw you, when a child you sat,
And ponder'd o'er the fire;
And deign'd to stoop that you might see,
And try to reach my lyre.
You prest its strings with so much joy,
And such a smile serene,
I fondly hop'd you soon would learn,
What gratitude might mean.
Amid your light domestic toils,
I rov'd with footstep free,
And oft you laid your needle down,
To take the pen from me.
When lonely, pausing o'er your book,
You walk'd at close of day,
Well pleas'd to trace my dawning smile,
You threw that page away.
