I never was a favourite,—
My mother never smiled
On me, with half the tenderness
That blessed her fairer child:
I've seen her kiss my sister's cheek,
While fondled on her knee;
I've turned away, to hide my tears, —
There was no kiss for me!
And yet I strove to please with all
My little store of sense;
I strove to please, — and infancy
Can rarely give offence:
But when my artless efforts met
A cold, ungentle check,
I did not dare to throw myself
In tears upon her neck!
How blessed are the beautiful!
Love watches o'er their birth;
Oh, beauty! in my nursery
I learned to know thy worth:
For even there I often felt
Forsaken and forlorn;
And wished — for others wished it too—
I never had been born!
I'm sure I was affectionate;
But in my sister's face
There was a look of love, that claimed
A smile or an embrace:
But when I raised my lip to meet
The pressure children prize,
None knew the feelings of my heart,—
They spoke not in my eyes.
But, oh! that heart too keenly felt
The anguish of neglect;
I saw my sister's lovely form
With gems and roses decked:
I did not covet them; but oft,
When wantonly reproved,
I envied her the privilege
Of being so beloved.
But soon a time of triumph came, —
A time of sorrow too;
For sickness o'er my sister's form
Her venomed mantle threw;
The features, once so beautiful,
Now wore the hue of death;
And former friends shrank fearfully
From her infectious breath.
'Twas then, unwearied day and night,
I watched beside her bed;
And fearlessly upon my breast
I pillowed her poor head.
She lived! — and loved me for my care,
My grief was at an end;
I was a lonely being once,
But now I have a friend.