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Over the silvery wave which shewed The pebbles white below, Where cool beneath the running stream The water-cresses grow;

A little maiden gathering them, Bent down with natural grace; The sunshine touch'd her auburn hair, The rose was on her face.

A rose accustomed to the sun, Which gave a richer hue Than ever pale and languid flower Within a hot-house knew.

Blessing the child within her heart, Marian past thoughtful by, And long the child watch'd thro' the boughs, With dark and alter'd eye.

And when the lady past again, The brook its glad song kept; But, leaning on its wild flower bank, The little maiden wept.

Marian was still a child in years, Though not a child in thought; She paused, and with her low soft voice, The cause for sorrow sought.

It was for envy Edith wept, And this she shamed to say; And it was long e'er Marian learnt Why tears had found their way.