A Fragment

'Maiden, thou wert thoughtless once

   Of beauty or of grace,

Simple and homely in attire

   Careless of form and face.

Then whence this change, and why so oft

   Dost smooth thy hazel hair?

And wherefore deck thy youthful form

   With such unwearied care?

'Tell us ­- and cease to tire our ears

   With yonder hackneyed strain ­-

Why wilt thou play those simple tunes

   So often o'er again?'

'Nay, gentle friends, I can but say

   That childhood's thoughts are gone.

Each year its own new feelings brings

   And years move swiftly on,

And for these little simple airs,

   I love to play them o'er ­-

So much I dare not promise now

   To play them never more.'

I answered and it was enough;

   They turned them to depart;

They could not read my secret thoughts

   Nor see my throbbing heart.

I've noticed many a youthful form

   Upon whose changeful face

The inmost workings of the soul

   The gazer's eye might trace.

The speaking eye, the changing lip,

   The ready blushing cheek,

The smiling or beclouded brow

   Their different feelings speak.

But, thank God! you might gaze on mine

   For hours and never know

The secret changes of my soul

   From joy to bitter woe.

Last night, as we sat round the fire

   Conversing merrily,

We heard without approaching steps

   Of one well known to me.

There was no trembling in my voice,

   No blush upon my cheek,

No lustrous sparkle in my eyes,

   Of hope or joy to speak;

But O my spirit burned within,

   My heart beat thick and fast.

He came not nigh ­- he went away

   And then my joy was past.

And yet my comrades marked it not,

   My voice was still the same;

They saw me smile, and o'er my face ­-

   No signs of sadness came;

They little knew my hidden thoughts

   And they will never know

The anguish of my drooping heart,

   The bitter aching woe!