PRISCILLA in the garret loft Of rare old silks and velvets soft A heap espying, -- Forgotten hues of a by-gone day! -- The little maid in deft array Carefully folds and lays away With envious sighing. Did they some rustic beauty grace, A comely form and winsome face, With footsteps flying? Or does she sigh because a bride They once adorned; now cast aside, Left in the garret there to hide, The dust defying? Perchance her great-grandmother wore Them hundred years ago and more -- Priscilla's crying! "Come little maid, why this despair? What makes those big tears standing there?" "Ah, sir! because they will not bear Another dyeing." |