TO ISABEL.

I often thought to write to thee, what time

I almost fancied heaven-born, genius mine,

And fondly hoped my island harp to wake,

To some new strain sung for my country's sake.

‘ Twas a vain hope and yet its presence smiled

Upon my day dreams when I was a child,

And only faded when my heart grew cold,

For head and heart alike are getting old.

Had I been gifted, some bright lay would be,

With touching melody, poured forth for thee.

Now, what I think the best I wish for thee.

May you never be a stranger;

Ever living with your own,

With the same eyes beaming round you,

That on your childhood shone.

Friendship knitting true hearts to you,

From youth to kindly age;

And affection brightening, gladdening

Your pleasant heritage.

Yet not wishing to live always,

Or shrinking back afraid,

When you come — as come we all must

And pass over to the dead.

With a hope then firmly anchored,

Of a living faith possessed,

Passing from among your kindred

Into everlasting rest.