[pg 59]

Harry stalk'd into my room in a rage—

'Hilton and Wilton have clear'd me out quite;

A run of ill luck at every stage—

Fifty pounds lost since you left us to-night!

I'll have my revenge on the rogues I vow!'

Marks of strange anger disfigure his face,

A dry parch'd lip and a thundery brow,

And a sharp bright eye that has lost its grace.

So a lov'd little hand comes smoothing down—

Wandering kisses can anger eclipse;

The beautiful forehead has ceased to frown,

And sweet is the kiss I find on my lips.

[pg 60]

'Ah, dearest,' I whisper, 'mourn not for this,

On a summer day with a heap of flowers;

This cannot be sorrow, or if it is,

It is a sorrow that cannot be ours.'

All the strange passion had vanish'd, I ween;

The Harry I knew had come back again;

 Prev. P 47/110 next