The Rest of the Story……

Paul Harvey, one of America’s top radio and TV commentators, tells in this excerpt from his book The Rest of the Story... of the human drama that inspired a great poet to write one of his most famous works.

Once upon a time there lived a poet and his bride Thomas Moore and Bessie Dyke. All who loved poetry acclaimed his work, and all of England acclaimed her fragile beauty.

Inside the picket fence of their happy cottage, these two withdrew to weave, in warm sunshine and in the quiet night, the soft, strong chains that weld two lives into one.

Sparrows fluttered in the ivy that glistened against their red brick chimney. Hollyhocks nodded lazily in the breeze off the heather. And in this perfect setting, the handsome, sensitive young poet and his breathtakingly lovely bride savored the unrepeatable miracle of each passing day.

The days he must of business necessity be away from home, Bessie was always with him. Always except this once. That is the rest of the story.

She was feverish. As he hovered over her, touched the wax like transparency of her cheeks, Bessie sensed his concern. He did not want to leave and leave her ill.

But she knew how important it was, this series of appearances in Italy. She insisted that he go.
Anxious about the strange fever, he left both a doctor and a nurse to be in constant attendance until he returned.

It was seven weeks, more than half of that on a sailing ship without any communication, before Tom returned. The young poet hastened directly to the vine covered love nest and burst into the house to find the doctor was waiting for him there

The doctor was saying something about, “There’s no need to be worried,” but, at the same time, barring the way to Bessie’s bedroom door.

The poet grasped the doctor’s arm demanded an explanation.

The speech which the doctor had rehearsed came out painfully. Mrs. Moore was all right. She was almost strong enough to leave her bed now. It had been 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 ever again.

Tom gasped unbelieving. Then he shoved the doctor aside and walked directly into the sickroom. There, in the darkness, he heard the breathing, in little sobbing bursts, of his young bride.

He knelt beside the bed and began to talk. Calmly, at first and then he began to plead with her. It was no use. With tears in her voice, she repeated over and over again: No, he must not open the blinds; no, he 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 which had brought them together in the beginning.

You may not remember anything else which ever poured from his prolific pen, but you will never forget what he wrote that night.
There were still stars in the sky but dawn in the east when he rose from his chair and tiptoed to her door and rapped lightly. She bade him enter.

It was kneeling there beside her in the darkness that these words passed his lips in music.
When he had finished, there was a stillness in that room. A long moment passed, and then Bessie turned in her bed, drew back the shutter and flung aside the drapery.

As he knelt there motionless, almost breathless, 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 her ravaged 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.

So they lived happily ever after because Tom Moore, with his pen the only weapon he knew wrote the first song he ever wrote.

Though he died over a hundred years ago, his melody is with us still. The inspired words and music which came out of the darkness that night left us this song:

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.