O could I love thee, love as thou art worthy to be loved,
Thy deep, thy constant tenderness my purpose might have moved.
I know, might I accept thy heart, a blissful lot were mine;
Would we had earlier met--but no! I never could be thine.
I love thee as a sister loves a brother kind and dear,
And feel a sister's thrilling pride whene'er thy praise I hear;
And I have breathed a sister's prayer for thee at Mercy's throne,
And ne'er a truer, purer love might sister's bosom own.
I knew this trial was in store; I felt it day by day;
And oft in agony I prayed this cup might pass away;
And yet I lacked the power to tell, what thou too late must hear,
To tell thee that another claims this heart to thee so dear.
Alas! that I must cause thee pain--I know that thou wilt grieve--
For oh! thou art all truthfulness; thou never couldst deceive;
And I have wept when anxious care sat heavy on thy brow,
Have wept when others wounded thee, and I must wound thee now.
It may be that in after-years we yet shall meet again,
When time has cancelled every trace of this dark hour of pain:
O may I see thee happy, blest, whate'er my lot may be,
And, as a sister and a friend, I shall rejoice with thee.