Sentimental Sundays - Hopelessly Romantic

Upon re-typing my 3rd Great-Grandmother's diary, I came across this entry this morning. 

The day before, there had been a Vernon family reunion and Georgia Alden was continuing the description from that day. I found the following poem to be so heartbreakingly romantic and not to mention the continued conversation regarding the height of some of the men quite amusing. 

Sunday, September 7, 1890

Too tired to go to Church. Uncle Frank and Lizzie stopped at Aunt Harriet’s last night. Harry Hargis and Hendson Vernon of Georgia spent the night. The number of tall men at Nazareth yesterday has been subject of comment. A great many were six feet or over, all the way to six feet, six inches. The youngest descendant there was Master Alex. Vernon Holmes 5 weeks of age. The following poem was received from his descendant in Texas who wrote they would be with us in spirit on the 6. Anna L. Walden, Frances Lay, Dallas, Texas. The subject of the poem was a Great-Granddaughter of Alexander Vernon and the writer General Mirabeau B. Lamar, Third President of the Republic of Texas. It was written while Texas was a Republic on a sheet of music with a lead pencil, during Nancy’s absence from home.

To Miss Vernon

The richest rose, the rarest flower in Texas Valleys shining,

Can never match the absent one for whom my heart is pining.

My thoughts are with her day and night, nor can I from her turn ‘em.

Go where I will I still behold the smiles of Nancy Vernon.

Ye belles of wealth, ye devotees of fortunes heartless pleasures,

If to your stores ye wish to add fair virtues shining treasures,

Go seek the subject of my song; in her you’ll quickly find ‘em

For every gem of soul and mind is found in Nancy Vernon.

I know ‘tis said there never shone on earth a faultless creature.

That some slight shade must ever dim the brightest form or feature

But if such shadows dwell with her I’m sure I can’t discern ‘em.
I own that others have their faults, but none has Nancy Vernon.

But why should I her praises sing? Poor worth my softest numbers;

Songs of mine can never make the love that in her bosom slumbers.

Then take any harp and break its chords, take my songs and burn ‘em

I prize them not since they can win no smiles from Nancy Vernon.