Watertown republican. [volume] (Watertown, Wis.) 1860-1906, 1873-05-21

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'She loves me not, and would spare us both the
pain of telling me so;
And I'd rather, God knows, that my heart
should break, in its silence bitter and
drear,
Than I'd poster woman with whispers and
vows that she doesn't care to hear!o
| So put away all my hopes of love, and settled
gloomily down
| To the dreary study of the law, in my cham
bers up in town;
| / left the lovers tender role for the sterner
| Romans part,
Aud thought to live my passion down, and root
it out of my heart
But in vain, in vain; for while my eyes were
bent on the musty page,
| My truant thoughts would wander away to the
| pleasant parsonage,
| And in fancy I'd see her WinsOme face--too
winsome and fair to tell
| With the soft shy look in her lustrous eyes
| that knew too WE'LL too we'll! -<
! Yet kept to my work with a logged heart
that naught could conquer. or tame;
''Since love is denied me,' bitterly said, spll
make myself name"
[ was UP with the first faint streak of dawn
! with pallid and haggard looks,
| And midnight found me with aching head
still bending over my books.
Anu you KNOW Gu6 61Q!-uOW Il mfSG would
clog my bloodshot waking eyes,
And circles culver about the lights in dazzling
rainbow dyes;
Then a strange, dim blur of letters and lines,
and then-all darkness there! ~
And poor blind man upon his knees, in an
agony of prayer.
Oh, Jack, dear brother! twas hard-'twas
hard SO young in sorrow and strife,
To be left a sightless burden, old man, for all
my useless life!
Never to see the sun or the flowers, nor the
starry heavens above,
Nor look in the dear home faces again, so full
of pity and love!
know that Katie wrote to you, lad; but she
couldn't tell, dear heart,
Of her soothing words, and patient help, and
tender sisterly part;
Nor how the dear old mother would say, while
her plying tears would fall,
| "Poor boy, his home must be always here;
there's more than enough for all -
But must be a burden on them, I knew, as I
bitterly felt at times,
And by and by took again to weaving stories
and rhymes;
And Katie would write them out for me, and
somehow they SEEM d to take,
For [ did my BEST Heaven knows, for hers and
the mothers sake.
| And quiet and peace at last came down, in gra-
| cious answer to prayer;
| The Christening Hand that had dealt the blow
helped the mourner to bear;
And came to think, with heart resign'd, of
even the brief love-dream
| That had brighten'd and blighted my bygone
| life with its tickle and fleeing CLEAN.
I seldom saw her-Besse, mean-for the
wound would rankle still,
But I'd hear of her almost every day from
either Katie or Will;
And when they talked of legacy that had
left her rich, you know,
Ny broken prayers went up to God for her
happiness below.
But it CHANGED, as I sat and brooded alone, one
summers afternoon
By the pleasant warmth and the scent O. the
flowers | knew it was tleafy June
Kate came and coax me to take her arm, and
walk out with her, to call
At the rectory house, or our friends would
think I'd quite forgotten them all.
| And Bessie was there I could not see her
winsome, welcoming face,
But the very sense of her presence seemed to
glOrify the place;
And | trembled and flush d in the foolish way
that lovers understand,
At the gentle sound of her plying voice, and
the touch of her dainty hand.
We sat in the quaint old parlor-ah, how well
knew it of old
And the good old rector prOsed away, about
his church and his fold,
The parish schools, and the state of the roads,
and the probable price of hay,
Till Bessie at last jumpd up from her chair,
in her old impulsiVe way
"Come, who's for my summer-h ouse?' she
said; 'fOr it is so hot in herei
What none of you speak? Then Charlie here
shall be my cavalier
Mamma, DEAR where is that magazine? O.
here 1t Is, see: z st s-r#=
[ want to read him the poem, you know, that
SO delighted mel"
Then she took my arm and led me out, with a
tender, sisterly care,
To the dear old garden, SO dark to me, to her
SO blooming and fair, H..
Till we came to the arbor, the scene of some of
my happiest hours o life, ..tsN Vs.
Ere I'd put from my heart its browning hope
of calling her my wife.
Twas Tennyson's very last poem she read,
and it may have been very fine,
But somehow her sweet voice trembled SO
much [ could hardly follow line;
And at last she gave it up with a sigh and laid
the book away. ....s...5. T.. .....-s .
II think it must be the heat" she said, "but
| cannot read to-day"
Then there came pause-a dreamy pause
when in fancy [ could see a
The fair flushed face of the gentle friend so
full of pity for me;
Then she laid her dainty hand on mine-her
hand that trembled SO! Hu
And the tears were in her tender voice as she
whispered soft and low:
Charlie, we two are such old, old friends, that
you mustn't think me bold
1t ask you to tell me secret that else would
ever be untold ..- s.sa... e..
What was it you wanted to say to me that
evening by the mere
Come I'm sure you'll tell me, won't you,
now? for I should so like to hear! l
What! you dare not tell me, you say!-ah,
WELL [ think can guessi-
And, Charlie dear, Pm sure you know my
answer would have been Yes!
You know [ loved you, without the need of
| either promise or VOW;
And yet-hoW cruel, how crueli-you thought
| should turn away from you 1aooo!
Now, when your poor dark life has need of a
tender and trusty guide;
Now, when Pm prouder of your love than
of aught in the world beside;
And did you think that this was the time I
should choose to coldly part?
| All ofiS little iD6na6 MOI Of