The Sumter banner. [volume] (Sumterville, S.C.) 1846-1855, 1851-08-19
A Picture for gsat,5, niors.

III I'D that Cilatrf fyonder---tiot The one
your feet lie upon, but tho other beside
you-closer yet---were seated sweet.
faced girl, with pretty little foot lys
ing out upon the hearth, d bit OF lace
running around tho throat, and the hair.
parted 10 charm over tie forehead,
fair as any in your dreams; and if you
could reach an arm through that chnir-
back without fear Of offence, and suffer
your fingers 10 play idly With those
curls tha. escape down The neck; and
ifyou could clasp with your other hand
those little white taper fingers Of hers,
which lie SO ternptingy within reach, and
10 talk softly and low in presence of the
blaze, while the hours slip without knowl-
edge, aud the winter winds whistle uncared
for; if, in short, you were no bachelor, but
the husband OF ench sweet imagc-
dream call il ratlicr-would it not be far
pleasanter thana cold, single nights sitting.
counting the stcks, reckoning the length
of the blaze, and the height of the falling
snow 7
Surely Imagination would he stronger
and purcr If II could have the playful fancics
Of drawing womanhood 10 delight it. All toll
would be torn from mind and labour, If but
another heart grew into this present soul,
Gucksn;ng it. warning it, cheering il, bid.
ding it ever God speed. Her face would
make rich halo, rich as rainbow, atop OF
oil such nosomc things as we lonely souls
coll trouble. Her smiles would ,Ilumine
the blackest oi crowded cares, darkness
that now seats you respondent IN your
solitary chair for days together, weaving
bitter fances dreaming bitter dreams,
would grow light and thin, and spread and
float away, chased by that beloved smile.
Your friend, poor fellow, dies--nevcr mind;
that gentle clasp OF her fingers, as she
steals gently behind you, telling you no, TO
wccp-it is worth ten friends.
Your Cis:er-swect onc-is dead
buried. The worms are busy with all her
fairness. How it makes you think
earth nothing but a spot to dig graves upon
1t is mole. She says she will be sister;
and the waving curls, MS she leans upon
your shoultter, touch your cheek! and your
wet eye turns 10 meet those other eycst- God
lns sent an angel, surely! Your mother
alas for lt--shc is gone! Is there any bit
;crness TO youth, aorc and homeless, like
this! You are not alone; she is there; her
tears softcning yours, her gricl killing
you're, and you live again 10 assuage that
KIND sorrow OF hers. Then-these
children, rosy. fair-haired; no, they are
yours. Toss away on the green sward-
never MUD tie nyacinths, the snow-Jrops,
the violets, il SO they are there; the perfume
OF their healtlsful lips is worth all the
world.
No need now to galher Wild bouquets to
love and cherish; flower, tree. gun, all dead
things; things Iivelicr hold your soul
And, she, slie mother, sweetest and faircst
OF all, watching, tender carcssing, loving.
tlii your own heart grows PANIED with ten
dercst jealousy. You have no need now
OF cold lecture TO teach you thnnklulness;
yont heart is :ull of 1t. No need now, as
bursting blossoms of trees taking leaf, and
grecnnes.', I" turn thought kindly and
lharh'uliy; for ever beside you there is
trun for which eye, heart and soul arc full
OF unspokcnabecause unspcakable, thank.
offerings fk.. AfarrrL