Classic Poem

It is not pride, it is not shame,
That makes her leave the gorgeous hall;
And though neglect her heart might tame
She mourns not for her sudden fall.

'Tis true she stands among the crowd
An unmarked and an unloved child,
While each young comrade, blithe and proud,
Glides through the maze of pleasure wild.

And all do homage to their will,
And all seem glad their voice to hear;
She heeds not that, but hardly still
Her eye can hold the quivering tear.

What made her weep, what made her glide
Out to the park this dreary day,
And cast her jewelled chains aside,
And seek a rough and lonely way,

And down beneath a cedar's shade
On the wet grass regardless lie,
With nothing but its gloomy head
Between her and the showery sky?

I saw her stand in the gallery long,
Watching the little children there,
As they were playing the pillars among
And bounding down the marble stair.