At last we stood at our mother's knee.
Do you think, sir, if you try,
You can paint the look of a lie?
If you can, pray have the grace
To put it solely in the face
Of the urchin that is likest me;
I think 'twas solely mine indeed;
But that's no matter,--paint it so;
The eyes of our mother--(take good heed)--
Looking not on the nest-full of eggs,
Nor the fluttering bird held so fast by the legs,
But straight through our faces, down to our lies.
And, oh, with such injured, reproachful surprise,
I felt my heart bleed where that glance went, as though
A sharp blade struck through it.
You, sir, know
That you on the canvas are to repeat
Things that are fairest, things most sweet,--
Woods, and cornfields, and mulberry tree,--
The mother,--the lads with their birds at her knee;
But, oh, the look of reproachful woe!
High as the heavens your name I'll shout,
If you paint me the picture, and leave that out.
_Alice Cary._
* * * * *
"CHRIST TURNED AND LOOKED UPON PETER.
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