THE SECRET SORROW.
Oh! let me from the festive board
To thee, my mother, flee;
And be my secret sorrow shared
By thee—by only thee!
In vain they spread the glitt’ring store,
The rich repast, in vain;
Let others seek enjoyment there,
To me ’tis only pain.
There was a word of kind advice—
A whisper, soft and low;
But oh! that one resistless smile!
Alas! why was it so?
No blame, no blame, my mother dear,
Do I impute to you.
But since I ate that currant tart
I don’t know what to do!
