ISABELLE.

Oh, beautiful and bright thou art!

Oh, beautiful and bright!

Thy voice is music of the heart--

Thy looks are rarest light!

What time the silver dawn of dreams

Lights up the dark of sleep,

As yon pale moon lights up the heaven

With beauty clear and deep,

I see thee in the ebbing stars,

I hear quaint voices swell,

And dim and phantom winds that come

And whisper, Isabelle.

Oh, beautiful and bright thou art!

Oh, beautiful and bright!

Thy beauty hangeth o'er my heart,

Like rich star-crowded night.

As moonbeams silver on the wave

Of some night-sadden'd river,

So on my lonesome life thy love

Would lie in light for ever.

Yet wander on--oh, wander on,

Cold river, to the sea,

And, weary life, _thy_ ocean gain--

Undream'd eternity.

In vain the cruel curse of earth

Hath torn our lives apart;

The man-made barriers of gold

Weigh down the humble heart.

Oh, hadst thou been a village maid--

A simple wayside flower--

With nought to boast, save honest worth,

And beauty all thy dower!

Such might have been--such _should_ have been,

But other lot befell;

I am the lowly son of toil,

And thou proud Isabelle.

It ever seems to me that love

Should level all degrees;

Pure honour, and a stainless heart

Are Nature's heraldries.

No scutcheon needs a noble soul

(Alas! how thinks the age?);

He is not poor who freedom hath

For his broad heritage.

Then welcome sternest teacher, Toil;

Vain dreams of youth, farewell;

The future hath its duty's prize--

The past, its Isabelle.