Sonnet X. To Mary

On thy young brow, my sister, twenty years Have shed their sunshine; and this April morn Looks on thee fresh and gladsome, as new--born From veiling clouds the king of day appears: Thou scarce canst order back the thankful tears That swell in thy blue eyes; nor dare to meet The happy looks that never cease to greet Thee the dear nursling of our hopes and fears. This Eastertide together we have read How in the garden, when that weeping one Asked sadly for her Lord of some unknown, With look of sweet reproof He turned and said, ``Mary''--Sweet sister, when thy need shall be, That word, that look, so may He turn on thee!