Year: 1873

SlOOmllN down
TO the dreary study of the law, in nv cham


bers up in town;
/ left the lovers tender role for the sterner


Romans part,
And thought to live my passion down, and root


it out of my heart.
But in vain, in vain; for while nv ewes were


bent on the musty page,
My truant thoughts would wander away to the


pleasant parsonage,
And i'll fancy I'd see her winsome face--too


winsome and fair to tell
With the soft, shy look in her ustrous ewes


that knew too well, 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, 'sTll


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.
And you know the end!-how a mist would


clog my bloodshot waking eyes,
And circles culver about the lights in dazzling


rainbow dyes;
Then strange, dina blur of letters and lines,


and then-al 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 I must be a burden on them, knew, as /


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, III gra-


Cious answer to prayer;
The chastenng Hand that had dealt the blow


helped the mourner to bear;
And | came to think, with heart resign'd, of


even the brief lovedream
That had brightend and blighted my by-gone


life with its tickle and feeting CLEAN.
| seldom saw her-Bessie, | 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 a legacy that had


left her rich, you know,
My broken prayers went up to God for her


happiness below.
But it CHANGED, as ! sat and brooded alone, one


summers afternoon
By the pleasant warmth and the scent o the


flowers | knew it was 'leafy june
Kate came and coaX'd me to take her arm, and


walk out with her, to call
At the rcctory house, or our friends would


think I'd quite forgotten them all.
And Bessie was there, | could not see her


winsome, welcoming face,
But the very sense of her presence seemed to


glorify the place;
And / trcmbled and flush d in the foolish way


that lovers understand
At the gentle sound of her pitying voice, and


the touch of her dainty hand.
We sat in the quaint old parlor-ah, how well


| knew ii 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 impulsiye way.
Come, who's for my summer-houses" she


said; for it is so hot in here!
What! none of You speak? Then Charlie here


shall be my cavalier.
Mamma, dear, where is that magazine? O,


here it is, l see:
l want to read him the poem, you know, that


50 delighted me-"
Then she took my arm and led me out, with


tender, siStcrly care,
To the dear old garden, so dark to me, to her


so blooming and fair,
Till we came to the arbor, the scene of some Of


my happicst hours o life,
Ere I'd put from my heart its crownlng 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 sigh, and laid


the book away.
II think il must be the heat she said, "but


| cannot read today
Then there came a pauSc-a dreamy pause


when in fancy could see
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!
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
If | ask you 10 tell me a secret that else would


ever be untold:
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 ! should so like TO heart
g What! YOU dare not tell me, you say.-ah,


well, / think ] can guess
And, Charlie dear, I'm sure you know my


answer would have been Yes!
You know l loved you, without the need of


either promise or vow;
And yet-how cruel how erucl-you thought
/ should turn away from you R01c!
= Now, when your poor dark life has need of


tender and trusty guide;
Now, when I'm prouder of your love than


of aught in the world beside:
And did YOU think that this was the time


should choose to cOldly partE
All, It's little indeed you men can know of the


depths of wOmans heart.
:, Charlie, don't think me unwomanly, dear


unwomanly and weak
Because | give voice to the love | know you


would never speak!
'Tis better so than that both our lives should


be forlorn and lone;
And so-if YOU care to have me, dear-you


may take me for your own! .
s Taal--Of my