A hundred years ago Tom Moore was a poet and
had just married a beautiful girl, Bessie Dyke. Theirs seemed an
idyllic
marriage, a story book beginning. Not too long after they were
married
Tom had to be a way on a trip to Italy. Bessie was feverish
and Tom did not want to leave, but it was important for him to go.
Anxious
about the fever, he left a doctor and a nurse to be in constant
attendance
until he returned. It was seven weeks sailing the ship and
without
any communication and then Tom returned.
As the young poet went directly to his home he found
the doctor waiting for him there. The doctor was saying that
there
is no need to be worried, but he stood barring the door to the
bedroom.
Tom demanded an explanation. The speech which the doctor had
rehearsed
came out painfully. Bessie had smallpox. The crisis was past, she was
recovering.
But it had left her once-lovely face scarred, mercilessly. And
she
did not want to see her husband again. Tom gasped
unbelieving.
Then he shoved the doctor aside and walked directly into the dark
room. He heard breathing, sobs, and the heartbreak of his bride.
He knelt beside the bed and began to talk. Calmly at first, then
he began to plead with her, but it was no use. With tears in her
voice, she repeated over and over again, No, he must not open the
blinds.
No, you must not open the blinds.
Fearful that his love, more precious to her than
her life, might fade with the transient beauty which had fled, she
insisted
he must leave now, go away, never see her again.
When she was near hysteria, Tom gave up. He went to his
study down the hall. Sometime between that afternoon and
the
following dawn Tom Moore decided that he would try to reach
through
to her again...with the gift that brought them together. While it
was yet dark in the morning, he went to her room, and in the darkness
of
the morning sky he sang the words which he had written. When he had
finished
there was a stillness in the room. A long moment passed and
then Bessie got out of bed, drew back the shutter and flung aside the
drapery.
As he knelt beside her bed, motionless, she reached for the flint and
lighted
the bedside taper and the room was suddenly radiant with
the
awakening sun and the dancing flame. As the light flooded the pock
marked
face Tom stumbled to his feet and flung himself into her arms and
at once they knew that they were together and nothing else would ever
matter
evermore.
The words that Thomas Moore sang were words that we seem
never to forget:
Believe me, if all those endearing young charms which I gaze on so fondly today, were to change by tomorrow and fleet in my arms. Like fairy gifts fading away. Thou wouldst still be adored--as this moment thou art. Let thy loveliness fade as it will, and around the dear ruin, each wish of my heart would entwine itself verdantly still.