AT the calm matin hour
I see her bend in prayer,
As bends a virgin flower
Kissed by the summer air;
Oh, meek her downcast eyes!
But the sweet lips wear a smile;
How hard our little angel tries
To be serious all the while!
I tell her 'tis not right
To be half-grave, half-gay,
Imploring in Heaven's sight
A blessing on the day;
She hears and looks devout--
Although it gives her pain;
Still, when the ritual's almost out
She's sure--to smile again!
She shocks her maiden aunt,
Who thinks it a disgrace
That, do her best, she can't
Give her a solemn face;
She'll scold and rate and fume,
And lecture hour by hour,
Until she makes the very room
Look passionate and sour!
Alack, 't is all in vain!
Soon as the sermon's done
My fairy blooms again,
Like a rose-bud in the sun.
I cannot damp her mirth!
I will not check her play;
Is guileless joy so rife on earth,
Hers shall not have full sway?
I asked her yester night,
Why, when her prayer was made,
Her brow of cordial light
Scarce caught a serious shade.
"Father," she said, "you love
Better to meet me glad;
And so I thought the Christ above
Might grieve to see me--sad!"
