Rapides gazette. (Alexandria, La.) 1869-187?, 1873-05-27

But In vain, in vain; for while my eyes were be
H on tne musty page,
MY truant thoughts would wander away to u
pleasant parsonage
ana In fancy I'D see her winsome face-tf
: wlnsOme and fair to tell
with the soft, shy look in her lustrous eyes tn;
knew too well, too well!
Yet kept 20 my work with dogged heart tn,
| naught could conquer or tame;
make myself name.p
| was up with the first faint streak of dawn wit
pallid and haggard looks,
And midnight found me with aching head sti
bending over my books.
And you know the endl-how mist would clo
| my bloodshot waking eyes;
And circles culver about the lights in dazzling
Then strange, dim blur of letters and lines, ant
then-all darkness thereI
And poor blind man upon his knees, in al
agony Of prayer.
| Oh, Jack, dear brotherl twas hard-'twas hard
SO young in sorrow and strife,
To be left sightiess burden, old man, for all my
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 Kate wrote to you, lad; but she
couldn't tell, dear heart,
Vi Ne, tnSen soSv.nns WoIus anu patient help, and
NOR how the dear old mother would say, while
her ptying tears would fall,
Poor boy, his bone must be always here,
there's more than enough for alli''
But must be burden ON them, knew, as 1
bitterly felt at times,
And by and by took again to weaving stories
And Katie would write them out for me, and
somehow they seem'd to ''take,"
FOR aid my best, Heaven knows, for her and
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;
Ana came to think, with a heart resign'd of
even the brief love-dream
Ihaf had brighten'd and blighted my by-gone
life with its tickle and fieeting gleam.
| seldom saw her-Bessie, mean-for the wound
would rankle still,
But l. 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,
ness below.
But 1t CHANGED, as sat and brooded alone, one
summer a1enoon-
By the pleasant warmth and the scent o. the
flowers knew it was "leafy June'-
Kate came and eoax'd me to take her arm, and
at the rectory house, or our friends would think
ia quite forgotten them all.
And l.;sas Bessie was there! l could not see her
But the very sense of her presence seemed to
glorify the place;
And Itrembled and nush'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 3 quaint s old parlor-ah, how well
And the good old rector prosed away, about his /
church and his fold,
The parish schools, and the state of the roads. /
49,, and the probable price Of hay,
I'LL Bessie at last jump'd up from her chair in /
her old impulsive way.
Come, who's for nv summer -bouse9,, she
-. said; ''for it is SO hot in here!
What! none of you speak? Then Charlie here
shall be my cavalier.
famma, dear, where is that magazine? O. here
1t is, see:
want to read him the poem, you know, that 50
delighted mel"
hen she took my arm and led me out, with a
tender, sisterly care,
o the dear old garden, so dark to me, to her so
blooming and fair,
i'll we came to the arbor, the scene of some of
my happiest hours o. life,
re I'd put from my heart its crowning hope of
calling ner my wife.
Twas Tennyson's very last poem she read. and
1t may have been very fine,
ut somehow her sweet voice trembled SO much
could hardly follow line;
nd at last she gave it up with a sigh and laid
think it must be the heat, I" she said "but
cannot read to-dayl'
hen there came a pause--a dreamy pause-wbep
in fancy could see
he fair flushed face Of the gentle friend full of
hen she laid her dainty hand on mine-her hand
that trembled sol
nd 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
ask you to tell me secret that else would
What was it you wanted TO say to me that
evening by the mere:
,me, I'm sure you'll tell me, won't you now ?
for should like TO hearl
'hatl you dare not tell me, you sayi-ah, well,
think can guessl-
oaa have I'm he.n sure yoa know
on know loved you, without the need of either
promise or vow;
nd yet-how cruel, how cruell-you thought
should turn away from you nop!
,w, when your poor dark life has need of q $
tender and trIisty guide,
wv, Wnen I'm prOuuer OF your love than Of
aught in the world beside;
nd did you think that this was the time should
choose 10 coldly part?
D, tits little indeed you men can know of the
depths Of wsman's heartl
arlie, don't think me unwomanly, dear-un-
womanly and weak
cause / give voice to the love know you
would never speak!
is better so than that both our lives should be
forlorn and lone;
Id so-if you care to have me, dear-you may
take me for your owni'
hat need TO tell OF my answer, Jack-of my 3
hearts ecstatic bliss,
I'd my lips sought hers, and we sealed our love u
with first warm, passionate kiss;
lille my silent thanks went up to God on the
Jacobs Ladder of prayer >
e God who had brighten'd my life with Joy
that seemd to great too bear! l.
II. "A
d so We were married-Bessie and land N
every hour of my life
cause to bless the happy day that brought me
my darling wife: =.
Ii true and lender helpmeet, she-so patient, A
and ready, and kind,
almost made me think at times twas bless L
ing to be blind!
came with gold In her hand, sweet wife; but
tod knows that far above a