Ellen, you were thoughtless once
Of beauty or of grace,
Simple and homely in attire,
Careless of form and face;
Then whence this change? and wherefore now
So often smooth your hair?
And wherefore deck your youthful form
With such unwearied care?
Tell us — and cease to fire our ears
With that familiar strain
Why will you play those simple tunes
So often, o'er again?
'Indeed, dear friends, I can by 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 trobbing heart.
I'w noticed many a youtful form,
Upon whose changeful face
The inmost workings of the soul
The gaser well 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 keenest woe.
Last night, as we sat round the fire
Conversing merrily,
We heard, without, approaching steps
Of on well known to me!
There was no trembling in my vois,
No blush upon my check,
No lustrous sparkle in my eyes,
Of hope, or joy, to speak;
But, oh! my spirit burned within,
My heart beat full and fast!
He came not nigh — he went away
And then my joy was past.
And yet my comrades marked it not:
My vois was still the same;
They saw me smile, and o'er my face
No signs of sadness came.
They little know my hidden thoughts;
And they will never know
The aching anguish of my heart,
The bitter burning woe!
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