Thus ran her thoughts: “O wretched day! When She was born so fair: Well could I let my charms decay, If she were not their heir; I loathe the sunbeams as they play About her golden hair. “Yet why? she is too good, too mild, So madly to aspire; _He_ is no boy to be beguil’d By sparks of colour’d fire: I will not dream a pretty child Can mar my deep desire. “Her fatherless and lonely days Are sere before their time: In scenes of gaiety and praise She will regain her prime, And cease to haunt these wooded ways With sentimental rhyme.” [Illustration: “Dear child! he comes.--Nay, blush not so To have your secret known:”] On to the conscious maiden pass’d Those words without the tongue; Half petulantly back she cast The glist’ning curls that hung About her neck, and answer’d fast: “Yes, I am young--too young: “Yet am I graver than my wont, Gravest when he is here; Beneath the glory of his front I tremble--not with fear: But as I read, Bethesda’s font Felt with the Angel near. “Must I mate only with my kind, With something as unwise As my poor self; and never find Affection I can prize At once with an adoring mind, And with admiring eyes?” “My mother trusts to drag me down To some low range of life, By pleasures of the clam’rous town, And vanity’s mean strife; And in such selfish tumult drown My hope to be _his_ wife.” Then darker round the lady grew The meditative cloud,-- And stormy thoughts began to brew She dar’d not speak aloud; For then without disguise she knew That rivalry avow’d. “What is my being if I lose My love’s last stake? while she Has the fair future where to choose Her woman’s destiny-- Free scope those means and powers to use, Which time denies to me. “Was it for this her baby arms About my neck were flung? Was it for this I found such charms In her uncertain tongue? Was it for this those vain alarms My mother-soul unstrung? “Oh, horrible! to wish my child-- My sole one left--unborn, And, seeing her so meek and mild, To hold such gifts in scorn; My nature is grown waste and wild, My heart with fury torn!” Speechless--enchanted to the spot-- The girl could scarce divine The whole disaster of her lot,-- But without sound or sign She cried, “O Mother! love him not;-- Oh! let his love be mine!