THE CONFESSION.
I pray thee, father, do not turn
That dark and angry brow on me—
How can I, father, bear a frown?
I never met but smiles from thee!
I pray thee pardon if my heart
Has owned another love than thine:
I pray thee for my mother's sake—
You often say her eyes are mine.
I have no memory of those eyes,
I never saw my mother's brow—
And yet I look to heaven and feel
That she is pleading for me now.
She loved you, father, as I love
The Earl whose name you will not hear—
A love that trembles while it owns
That nought on earth can be so dear.
I'll tell you how it was we met:
'Twas when you waited on the king.
Of eighteen years that I have known
I never saw so sweet a spring.
I staid but little in our halls,
The woods around us were so fair;
The young leaves seemed like flowers, so bright,
So fragrant, and so soft, they were.
The maiden-hair flung o'er the banks
Its long, green tresses, and beneath,
Hid in its little world of leaves,
The violet hung its purple wreath.
The hawthorn spread its perfumed boughs,
A very Araby of snow;
And sunshine through the aspen flung
A trembling shower of gold below.
You know, my father, you first taught
My steps to love these wanderings wild;
The leaf, the brook, the singing bird,
Were your first lessons to your child.
