I've said how glad the murmuring rill—
How fair had every wild flower grown:
I longed to say how dear they were—
'Twas sad to wander there alone.
Like me he loved the green-wood side,
The opening leaf, the early flower:
Beside the old oak we grew friends—
My father, 'twas a happy hour.
And dearer every ancient oak,
And dearer every green path grew,
Now that their solitude was gone,
And that another loved them too.
He loved to hear me talk of thee,
Your tender kindness, and your care;
And how it was beside your knee
I learned to breathe my infant prayer.
Forget the past, the dreary past,
And let the present pity move—
Ah! shall an ancient feud divide
Our deep, our young, our happy love!
My father, is forgiveness near?
I read it in your softening eye:
Think of your own youth's dearest dream—
My mother loved, and so do I.
My father, dost thou smile on me?
My pleading has not been in vain.
Bless me, my father, bless your child,
And take her to your heart again!
L. E. L.
