“She turned her head and gave a look,
’T was half a smile and half grimace;
His temper rose,—he caught a fork
And threw it in his sister’s face.
“It struck her eye, the blood gushed out,
He screamed, and turn’d as pale as death;
Oh, never shall my memory lose
That dreadful scene while I have breath.
“For three long, melancholy months,
We kept her in a darkened room,
With a close bandage round her eyes,
Where not a ray of light could come.
“The doctors tried their utmost skill
To keep her sight, but all in vain;
At length the wounded eyes were healed,
But she will never see again.
“Her brother’s heart is almost broke;
‘Oh, Harriet,’ he often cries,
‘If I was owner of the world,
I’d give it to restore your eyes.
“‘But you will laugh and play no more,
Nor your dear parents’ faces see,
Nor trees, nor fields, nor blooming flowers,
And never will you look on me.
“‘Oh, wrretched, miserable boy!
What has my wicked temper done;
I’ve shut my dear, dear sister’s eyes
Forever from the cheerful sun!’”
This story, children, made me feel
How very wicked I had been;
To lose my temper when at play,
I felt to be a grievous sin.
And now, my dears, said grandmamma,
May this sad tale I’ve told to-day
Lead you to guard your hearts with care,
And ne’er be angry when at play.