The daily crescent. [volume] ([New Orleans, La.]) 1848-1851, 1851-06-10

Ii IN that chair yonder, the one your feet lie
upon, but the other beside you-coser vet, were
seated sweet-faced girl with a pretty little foot
lying out upon the hearth, bit of lace running
round the throat, and the hair parted to charm
over forehead fair as any in your Dreams and il
you could reach an arm through that chair. back
without fear OF offence, and suffer your fingers to
play idly with those curls that escape down the
neck, and ii you could clasp with your other hand
those little white taper fingers of hers, which lie
so temptlngly within reach, and so talk softly and
low IN the presence of the blaze, while the hours
slip without knowledge, and the winter winds
whistle uncared or-if, in short, you were no
bachelor but the husband of such sweet image.
dream call it, rather,) would it not be far pleas.
anter than cold single night, sitting counting the
STICKS reckoning the length of the blaze, and the
height of the falling snow.
Surely imagination would be stronger and purer
II 1t could have the playful fancies of dawning
womanhood to delight it. All toll would be torn
from mind labor, if but another heart grew
INTO this present soul, qulckenng it, warming it,
cheering 1t, bidding it ever God speed Her face
would make halo rich as a rainbow atop of all
such noisome things as we lonely souls call trouble
Her smiles would illuminate the blacklist of
crowded cares, and darkness, that now seats you
Respondent in your solitary chair for DAYS toy
weaving bitter fancies, dreaming bitter dreams,
would grow light and thin, and spread, and float
away, chased by that beloved smile. Your friend
poor fellow, dies Never mind. That gentle
clasp OF her fingers, she steals behind you, tell
ing you not to weep, for it is useless, is worth
ten friends.
Your sister, sweet one, is dead-buried The
worms are busy with all her fairness. How it
makes you think earth nothing but spot to dig
graves upon! 1t is more. She says she will be a
sister; and the waving curls, as she leans upon
your shoulder, touch your cheek, and your wet
eye turns to meet those other eyes-God has sent
his angel surely! Your mother, alas for it, she is
gone Is there any bitterness 10 a youth, alone
and homeless, like this ! You are not alone she
is there her tears softening yours, her grief kill.
ing yours, and You live again to assuage that kind
sorrow of hers. Then-lhese children, rosy, far
haired; no, they do not disturb you with prattle
now, they are yours. Toss away there on the
green sward-never mind the hyacinths, the snow
irops, the vioes, ii SO be they are there The per
tune OF their healIhfu lips is worth all the flowers
,f the world.
No need now TO gather wild bouquets to love and
cherish flower, tree, gun--all are dead things
hlngs livelier hold your soul. And she, the
neither, sweetest and fairest of all, watching lend
ng, caressing, loving I'LL your own heart grows
'ained with ienderest JEALOUSY. You have no need
low Oh cold lecture to teach thankfuIness your
heart is iul of it, No need now, at once, Of burst
ng blossoms of trees taking leaf, and greenness,
70 turn thought kindly and thankfully; for ever
beside you there is fruit for which eye heart and
soul, are full of unknown, unspoksn, because I'M
thank-oferings. Tx Marvel.