University of Virginia Library

'Tis done, 'tis done, the bitter hour is past,
And Isabel my treasure, my delight,
Is number'd with the dead. I see the hearse
With sable plumes and sullen-footed steeds
The village church approach. I see the corse,
From its dark cell releas'd, by many a hand
Uplifted heavily. I hear the bell
Toll to the slow and melancholy step
Of mute procession, the white priest before,
The mourners following, and in the midst,
Thee my delight, my pleasure, and my hope,
Under the flowing pall. I see my love
Borne thro' the portal of her native church,
Thence never to return. I hear a voice
Consign her to oblivion, dust to dust,
Ashes to ashes.

Everlasting God,
Author of life, and sovereign of death,
Why hast thou stript me of this lovely gem,
The glory of my bosom? Was my tongue
Unwilling to intreat thee? Was my knee
Tardy to kneel? or did my anxious heart
Ask without fervour for the life it sought?
Mysterious Being, with unceasing prayer
Have I thy throne approach'd, beseeching health
For this my dearest blessing. With large tears
Have I thy grace intreated day and night,
Requesting rather pain and poverty
Than this so bitter loss. Yet still in vain
Have I besought thee, and thy will be done.
I know there is not righteousness in man,
And of the blessings which I yet enjoy
I nothing merit. Loud as I complain'd,
Devoutly as I pray'd, thine ear was shut
Without injustice; and the pains I feel
Are the due wages of my mean desert.

Eternal God, must I no more enjoy
The genial comforts which thy liberal hand
Once shed about me? Must yon lonely cot
Know me no more? yon wood-besprinkled vale
Echo no longer to my careless song?
No! my sweet treasure Isabel is gone,
And in yon rural mansion lives no more
The village Curate. To some stranger's eye
Must it unfold its blossoms, the sweet buds
Which art has taught its windows to surround.
To mine they give no pleasure, nor to me
Smiles, as it did, the valley or the brook,
The wood, the coppice, the paternal oak,
Or village steeple station'd on the hill.
No! my sweet treasure Isabel is gone.
Some messenger of God my door has pass'd
From earth returning, saw the beauteous flower,
Transported gather'd it, and in his hand
Bore it to heav'n rejoicing. Lo! my tears!
They flow for Isabel, whom these my eyes,
When first they wak'd to reason and to sense,
Found a poor friendless infant at my side
In the same cradle sleeping. With a smile
And arms outstretch'd it pleaded for my love,
And won affection which no time could kill,
No accident abate. Our souls were one,
One were our hopes, our pleasures, and our pains.
Wept Isabel? into her wounded heart
Sweet consolation her companion pour'd.
Droop'd with distemper her unhealthy mate?
She at his side sat weeping, sooth'd his pain
With gentle eye-drops and the tender tone
Of sympathy maternal, nor forbore
Till rosy welfare to his cheek return'd.

Then sported they together, from the world
Long time remote, where yon enormous downs
Shoulder the eastern moon. The mountain's side
They scal'd together, on his airy brow
Together loiter'd, and together bowl'd
The bounding flint into the vale below.
Together stood they trembling on the cliff,
To view the wide unlimited expanse
Of ocean green beneath, what time the storm
His azure realm had troubled, and at large
The tempest-loving porpoise thro' his waves
Flounder'd unheeding. On the pebbly beach
With painful step they travell'd side by side,
Shrunk at the thund'ring downfall of the surge,
And chas'd the flying foam. Never apart
Till Education at her season came,
Sever'd their hands, and bade the boy averse
To learning's distant fane her steps attend.

Yet still tow'rd Isabel's belov'd retreat
A longing eye he cast, her parting tears
Remember'd, her engaging smile, her look
Of meek affection, her impassion'd kiss.
Oft on the spotless sheet with breathing pen
He pour'd the tender sentiment he felt.
She the warm line perus'd, and dwelt with pride
On ev'ry glowing period.

So increas'd
Love not to be subdued, and like the moon
To ampler plenitude and sweeter day
Proceeded hourly; but not like the moon
Increas'd to wane, augmented but to change.
No, my sweet Isabel, thy faithful love
Knew no decline; from day to day it grew,
From year to year, an amaranthine flower
Unchangeable. With exquisite delight
She welcom'd home the countenance she lov'd,
What time Vacation 'gan his airy dance,
And left Tuition nodding o'er his books
In Academus' shades: with show'r of joy
Welcom'd the day when Education's claims
Drew to a period, and the youth was her's,
Never to leave her more.

Then to the cot
Not unaccompanied by those they lov'd
Contented they withdrew. Then life began,
And sweetly pass'd it by their happy door,
While they and health and innocence within
Sat at the board together. There they dwelt,
And often rose in the sweet morn of May,
To watch the slow and timorous return
Of renovated Spring. With eye well-pleas'd
They saw the sun industrious from his couch
Still on the morrow with an earlier smile
His beauteous dawn dispense; with joyful heart
Noted the progress of the gradual vale
Slowly reviving, saw the op'ning bud
Spread its incautious blossom to the breeze,
The tender leaf for its protection spring,
And gloried to behold the lonely oak
In tardy foliage cloth'd. Yes, day by day
'Twas thy supreme and innocent delight
With me, my Isabel, the plant and flower,
The shrub and the espalier, the high wood,
The hedge-row, field, and orchard to observe,
Each in its turn with vegetative life
Freely endued, and, as its season came,
Clad in peculiar honours. With thy eye
Has mine enchanted round the garden stray'd,
And oft have I beheld thee with a smile
Thy families protecting, raising some,
Some wedding to the marriageable stem,
And some with dew-drops cheering.

Ah! no more
Must thy sweet converse in the garden shade
My list'ning ear engage. Thou shalt no more
Hear me discourse of wisdom freely shed
On ev'ry work below, and to the sight
Of him who searches easy to be seen.
Our eyes no more upon the bloom of spring
Shall dwell together. Never shall I hear
Thy tongue again the concert of the grove
Applaud, and mark at thy request the strain
Of many a warbler singing to his mate.
The bird of morn , that on the sun-beam floats,
What time he darts it from the deep aslant,
And smites unseen the flecker'd roof of heav'n,
Shall no more wake thee with his early song
In wild division warbled. Nor again
Her solo anthem shall the bird of night ,
Heard with attention, to thy watchful ear
In the still coppice vary. Eve and morn
Participated pleasure shall no more
To us distribute. With thy arm in mine
I shall no more the sober walk enjoy
In the still ev'ning vale, what time the rook
With whisp'ring wing brushes the midway air,
To the high wood impatient to return.
We shall no more yon family of oaks,
Which crowds the bottom of the gloomy vale,
Visit together, when the shades of night
Double the horrors of their mingled boughs.
We shall not listen to the free complaint
Of the day-dreading partridge, oft dispers'd,
And often pitied by thy tongue and mine.
We shall not hear with sympathetic heart
The distant bell, whose deep and equal tone
Tolls to the grave some relative deceas'd,
Some child, some parent, or some spouse belov'd,
And dear to them who follow, as ourselves
Were precious to each other.

No! dear girl,
Thy own sad knell has toll'd. My wounded heart
Has yearn'd at thy decease, and tho' my foot
Refus'd to follow to the yawning grave
Thy cold remains, my overflowing eye
Has wept thee plenteously. It weeps thee still,
And daily, while I may, the silent spot
Where thy poor reliques rest, with swelling heart
Will I revisit. Daily by thy grave
Will I the luxury of grief profuse
Indulge, and dwell a statue on the spot
Where the dark vault its stony jaws has clos'd
On Isabel my treasure, and ere long
Shall close on me. The solitary walls
Which guard thy corse shall my domestic Muse
With unaffected eulogy inscribe,
And place her breathing tablet o'er thy bones
With the deep sigh of exquisite regret.
My tongue shall oft report thee, and my feet
Rejoice to be detain'd, while at thy side
I tell the moving tale of thy desert.
Here sleeps my Isabel, the brightest gem
Heav'n in my crown had plac'd, my bosom-star,
The sweet companion of my lonely hours,
Whose presence made a moment of a day,
Whose absence makes a century of an hour.
With me she tripp'd upon the airy down,
With me she loiter'd in the sunny vale,
With me applauded nature, ever fair,
Revolve in what vicissitude she will.
In ev'ry season of the beauteous year
Her eye was open, and with studious love
Read the divine Creator in his works.
Chiefly in thee, sweet Spring, when ev'ry nook
Some latent beauty to her wakeful search
Presented, some sweet flow'r, some virtual plant.
In ev'ry native of the hill and vale
She found attraction, and where beauty fail'd,
Applauded odour or commended use.
So was the wild geranium to her breast,
However simple and however plain,
A welcome ornament; germander so,
With his blue flow'r on ev'ry bank dispers'd,
No guest impertinent. The humble vetch
Her posy grac'd, and the pale rose of prime.
The orchis elegant, with many a tier
Of fly-resembling blossoms each o'er each
Pagoda-like dispos'd. With tender sense
The pimpernel, which to the humid morn,
Ere yet the shower-shedding cloud appears,
Its bosom closes, and presages wet.
The tansey with its bloom of gold, and leaf
Verdant above, with silver lin'd beneath.
The lujula, which often on the bank
Dwells by the woodland strawberry, and presents
A leaf not less delicious than his fruit,
A flow'r superior.

Such and thousands more,
Leisurely gather'd, have thy hand and breast,
Dear Isabel, adorn'd, while I well pleas'd
Have mark'd thy studious search, and unperceiv'd
Drawn thee thus loit'ring in unutter'd song;
Or idly wound the clasping eglantine
About thy crown, or fill'd thy hair with flow'rs
Of the sweet woodbine, whose maternal branch
Suckles the bee with honey and the moth.
Yes, gentle maid, thy steps have I pursu'd
In search of summer beauties, and observ'd
Myriads that wak'd me to delight and joy,
But none so fair, so lovely as thyself.
With thee have I admir'd the shady grove,
The sunny champaign, the extensive weald
Scatter'd with steeples, messuages, and mills,
And dwelt on many a pleasurable spot
Of intersected pasture, with its stack,
Cottage and lodge, few sheep and grazing cow,
Deeming content and happiness were there.
With thee have I applauded the deep vale,
Its verdure mellowing as it stole away,
To either margin of a winding stream
Presenting fainter shadows, softer woods;
With thee beheld with smile affectionate
Our native downs remote, hill behind hill,
Gigantic family, some near, some far,
Withdrawing till their faint expiring tops
Were almost lost and melted into air.
With thee have I delighted still to rove
At morn, at eve, in twilight, and at noon,
Long as sweet summer lasted. Chiefly then
When tufts of primrose smil'd upon the bank,
Gracing the verge of some translucent stream,
Or glassy lake, whose mirror their soft flow'rs
Reflected softer to the loit'rer's eye.
Or when the strawberry with ruddy cheek
Provok'd the finger to be plucking still,
When fragrant honeysuckle his sweet flow'r
Along the hedge-row scatter'd, and the breeze
Of ev'ning freely his perfume dispens'd;
When blossom'd clover, or the martial bean,
The hayrick newly built, or bitter hop
Emitting from the oast a grateful steam,
Fill'd all the vale with odours. Arm in arm
Have we the dews of ev'ning often met,
And the pale ray of the September moon,
What time ascending with discolour'd cheek
She peer'd above the cloud or highland wood,
And silently improving as she rose
Hung o'er the faded landscape full of light;
A glorious lamp, to cheer a boundless hall
Floating across the living dome of heav'n,
Suspended upon nothing. Arm in arm
Have we the sun of morning on the brow
Yet unapparent welcom'd, and his soft
Emergent glory like the bee enjoy'd,
Roving from bank to bank, from hill to hill.
Along the meadow now, or thro' the field
Of sheaves erect, or barley by the scythe
In frequent lines dispos'd, or fertile oat.
Now by the stream, to hear the liquid lapse
Of Rother gliding o'er some pebbly shoal,
Or with hoarse tumult thro' the foamy dam
And idle mill-wheel falling. Homeward now
Thro' many a garden which the foster'd hop
Shades with his branch prolific, yet untouch'd:
Now to some quarter where his honours fall,
Thro' many a family who pluck his flow'rs,
And fill the bin with gold, there to delay,
And haply some assist the pole to strip,
Bestowing freely a few moments toil
To mark how industry her task pursues,
With finger never weary, singing still.
Now to the village, whose aspiring church
High on a hillock in the valley stands,
And smiles with glory in the rising sun,
As if it lov'd the prospect it adorns.
How sweet the pleasure then, in some lone nook
Under a precipice, or lofty wood,
To pause and listen, while the village bells,
By distance mellow'd, their melodious tones
Each after other to the feeding ear
Softly persuasive utter'd; faintly heard
Sometimes, and scarce more audible, remote,
Than the mellifluous octave, gently touch'd
By some impassion'd songstress, to relieve
Her soul-subduing song; sometimes more bold,
A sweet harmonious diapason swell
Of gradual increase, by the breeze at length
In loud confusion huddled on the ear,
Till echo chid them, and they died again.

Ah me! such pleasures shall be mine no more.
My lov'd companion, whose endearing smile
And sensible remark made all things sweet,
Attends my paths no more. My gentle friend
Is snatch'd away to Heav'n. Content is gone,
And sorrow saddens every step I tread.
Dear spirit, come again. In some lone hour,
While thus I sit in melancholy thought,
With eyes intent upon the quiv'ring flame
That plays along the hearth, and shed my tears
Without reluctance, open wide the door,
Steal to my side unseen, and with a kiss,
As often wont, my reverie disperse.
Recall me with a smile from the dark gloom
Of woe and discontent, and once again
Bring to my side sweet peace; for she is fled,
And has been long departed. When disease
First prey'd on thee, my treasure, she withdrew,
And wander'd God knows whither. Cruel maid!
She left me tho' I lov'd her, and is gone
With those to linger who shall prize her less.
Then come again, dear spirit, come again,
And let thy smile exhilarate a soul
Which cannot live and be content alone.
I will esteem thee more and chide thee less,
And nothing utter which thy heart shall wound,
Tho' death divide us never. Want of ease,
And frequent sense of agony conceal'd,
Has sometimes made me in the wayward hour
E'en thee, thou blameless innocent, reprove;
And thou hast wept to ease an aching heart,
Which almost burst at my undue rebuke.
Return again, sweet spirit. Let me weep,
And make atonement for the wrong I own.
Thou wilt not blame me. Guilty as I am,
Forgiveness shall be mine. Wert thou my judge,
My debt of trespass would be small indeed.

Come, let me hold thee with a father's love,
And yield thee benefits thrice more in weight
Than father ever on his child bestow'd.
Thou art my daughter. When my weeping Muse
The filial Marg'ret drew, she copied thee.
Nor can I deem thee to the brilliant gem
Of More inferior, tho' with justice styl'd
The grace of Britain. Piety was thine,
As piety was her's. Good humour, love,
Compassion, pleasantry and soft address,
Exterior symbols of a mind within
Gentle, humane, and friendly, grac'd you both.
Both from attentive childhood's earliest hour
Were by the Muses nurtur'd. Marg'ret's eye
Delighted ever on the page to dwell
Of sweet instruction, and no leisure hour
Neglected Isabel, and not improv'd;
Pursuing still the multifarious tale
Of general story, of the world at large
Discoursing, ancient continent and new,
Of kingdoms born, and mighty states deceas'd,
Of wars and victories and routed hosts,
And millions slain, of whom and of their deeds
But in the classic page no trace exists.
Now to the changes of her native isle
Strictly attentive, from its earliest birth
The growth of pow'r she trac'd, and gradual rise
Of commerce, feeble in its first essay,
Spreading another and another sail,
Till ocean swarm'd with ventures, till excess
Came to the shores, till luxury began,
And exquisite refinement wondrous nice
Allow'd no blemish in the work she sought.
The birth of learning then, and childish march
Of science, yet an infant led by strings,
She mark'd, and thro' successive ages watch'd
The puny stripling till he grew to man.
With sages thus which every age adorn'd,
Philosophers and scholars, she ere long
Had intimate acquaintance, and the tale
Of anecdote peculiar still pursued,
And gloried to remember. Ye whose pens
In moral lesson have your country taught,
Say which of you she knew not? studious ever
Of your instructive and amusing line,
Whether it march'd in solemn state along,
Or wanton'd idly to arrest the eye,
And lead the slumb'ring judgment unawares
To sense of duty. Which of you, ye bards,
Had she not follow'd thro' your airy flights?
Whether aloft in Epic song sublime
And bold Pindaric soaring, or beneath
Flutt'ring in humble verse, or steadier song
Warbling suspended in the midway heav'n.
From the wild terrace of the British muse
She ev'ry flow'r had gather'd, and dispos'd
In cabinet secure her posied sweets,
The weed rejecting ever. Witness these
So neatly penn'd, so carefully preserv'd,
Volumes of beauty, for the leisure eye
And faithless memory copied. Prospers here
The puniest blossom of the classic muse,
Here flourishes the fairest. Chiefly thine,
Thou bard of nature, Shakespeare. Milton, thine;
Thine, Dryden, from a mound of rubbish cull'd,
Yet not inferior to the best that blow.
Thine, Spenser, to the antiquarian eye
Soberly pleasing. Butler, thine, replete
With learning, sense, and wit. Roscommon, thine,
Judicious, elegant; and, Otway, thine,
Applauded and reprov'd. Thine, Pope, as gems
Not seldom lustrous, sometimes tinsel-ray'd.
Thine, gentle Pomfret, not to be despis'd;
And, nebulous Blackmore, thine. Thine, charming Rowe,
Politest grace of the dramatic page;
And thine, poetic Prior. Parnel, thine,
To me of lovely fragrance. Thomson, thine;
And thine, more musical, descriptive less,
Young, in whose tedious and protracted song
Still gleams and still expires the cloudy day
Of genuine poetry. Thine too are there,
Impetuous Akenside, as thunder strong.
Thine, awful, pleasing, persecuted Gray.
Thine, lovelorn Littleton; and, Shenstone, thine,
An artificial nosegay made of shells.
And thine, not least esteem'd, tho' latest nam'd,
Ingenious Cowper. From thy various Muse,
Sweet bard, she frequent entertainment sought,
Nor long could seek in vain. Upon thy page
Her eye was feeding, when invidious death
Her bosom wounded with his poison'd shaft.
And soon she thought thy labour to repay
With some fair pledge of honour and esteem,
By her own art accomplish'd. Time to come,
Far as the ken of certainty may reach,
She to display had purpos'd, and thine ear
With sweet prophetic narrative to feed
As long as hunger would. For she had skill
The moon from her high orbit to decoy,
And hold her spell-bound in the midst of heav'n,
While she propounded question, at what hour
The phasy wand'rer with decreasing orb
Her course anomalous fulfill'd unseen;
Or at what hour with half replenish'd horn
She grac'd the brow of eve, or when replete
Rose in full glory in the belt of night.
Then question sprung, if in her annual course
Ofttimes the world embracing, thro' the band
Which marks the fancied circuit of the sun
At her renewal, or her full-fac'd hour,
She pass'd. Affirmative reply with style
Correct was noted, and from thence arose
Examen nice, how near or how remote
The node she sail'd to, or the node she left;
And whether as she journey'd, void or fill'd,
She touch'd the distant shadow of the earth,
Or shadow'd earth herself. Earth's shadow then
Was feebly pictur'd, and the point exact
By computation noted, where the orb
Of night first smote it, and her borrow'd beam
Slowly submitted, till her faded cheek
Was all with wan deliquium sicklied o'er.
Her central course athwart the shade she cross'd,
And ev'ry moment of her pallid march
Were represented then, till her thick veil
Earth drew aside, impatient of delay,
And the sweet loss she mourn'd. Then glow'd anew
The silver crescent with improving horn,
And the fair orb thro' all her changes pass'd
Of wane and increase in a summer's eve.
The moon thus portray'd in her languid hour,
Question arose what time her rayless orb
The sunbeam intercepted, and how large
The portion sever'd from his ardent globe
By her intruding disc; at what bright hour
She 'gan invade him, and her central path,
Whether it smote his axis in the midst,
Total eclipse inducing, or a ring
Of glory sparing on his utmost skirt.

Such arduous queries would the fair one ask,
And reason answer'd, on her spotless blank
The luminaries painting, each in turn
Involv'd in partial or in total gloom;
The one long struggling with her adverse hour,
The other soon victorious. Nor alone
Computed she the labours of the moon
Or parent sun, as their expiring balls
The passant year alarm'd, or years to come
Clouded with idle terrors yet unborn.
Into the dark abysm of ages past
An eye inquisitive she threw, and oft
The credulous historian, copying still
The date erroneous, with unerring art
Chastis'd and rectified, the glorious fact
To its lost hour restoring, till the page
Of maim'd chronology spake truth alone.

Such was thy skill, dear maid, by nature taught
The maze of heav'nly motions to explore.
Nor this thy only art; in numbers vers'd,
And able early to untie with ease
The problematic knot, howe'er delay'd
By fraction cumbersome, and hard to rule.
Thine was the pow'r, when calculation swarm'd
With digits numberless, and scarce could urge
Her toilsome process, by unwieldy size
Retarded, to conduct with ease the mind
Thro' all its movements to the truth it sought
By that sweet art of the wild Arab learn'd.
Compendious method, whose disputing march
Relieves the soul of effort, and cuts short
The labour of attention, making truth
To him who millions agitates involv'd
No longer vex'd and tedious, nor to him
Who geometric inference pursues,
Still on the letter'd diagram intent.

Thine also was the art, to touch with skill
And various feeling the persuasive stop
Of organ mellow-ton'd, slow movement first
And solemn fingering, till the lapt soul
With sweet indulgence satiated 'gan doze
As if by opium lull'd, and ill perceiv'd
The melting lapse of diapason sounds,
Harmonious combination falling slow
Into a tremulous expiring close.
Then the brisk fugue with captivating air,
Expressive pause, and tone distinct and loud,
Led like some active hero to the field,
Led and was follow'd by battalions firm,
Till universal uproar fill'd the ear.
Then follow'd tender air, that stole along
Like softest poetry, whose dying fall
Might ravish heav'n itself. Then solemn march,
Impulse scarce needing of the pow'rful trump
And loud reverberating drum, to wake
Reposing valour to gigantic deeds.
Then air accompanied by verse and voice,
Haply of Handel's muse, for some sweet grace
Selected and esteem'd, haply deriv'd
From genius less improv'd, from living art,
Which seldom to the judgment dares appeal,
Her song compiling for the ear alone.
Religious anthem then thy spreading hand
With its full concord swell'd, whether it breath'd
Melodious solo or harmonious verse,
Or shouted chorus awfully devout,
Enrich'd with all the mysteries of tone.

What grace had music which to thee was new
Or hard to copy, evermore intent
Upon her learned pleasure-giving page?
And yet not so intent, but that thy eye
Would often hunger for sedater fare,
Would thirst th' amusing characters of Greece
In Homer's line to read, and drink the stream
Of pure Castalius genuine as it fell.
Nor of that fount alone, but of the fount
Of God, whence prophets their sublimer draught
Drew, till the plenteous bev'rage on their lips
Kindled divine enthusiasm, long'd thy soul
To taste with freedom. Hence thy brave attempt
To climb the mountain of Judæan writ,
Till nought of Hebrew rudiment thy search
Or memory escap'd. The key was thine
The ark of ancient promise to unlock,
And there the sacred leaf, to others dumb,
To scan and to interpret for thyself.
Yet slighted not thy truth-adoring soul
The volume of translation, long esteem'd
And executed well, nor needing yet,
Save here and there, a sense-restoring touch.
Thence drew thy judgment a continual feast,
The chain of prophecy expounding still,
Link after link, as story lent thee light,
And tracing with conviction the strong proof
Of Christian verity, still free to doubt
And nothing credulous, yet yielding still
To equal testimony brave assent.

Such were the treasures of thy active mind,
Ingenious Isabel; such the sweet arts
Which made thee to a brother dear indeed;
That not the pious child of More to him
Seem'd to possess, enchanting as she was,
Of mental beauty a more ample share.
Yet, lovely as thou wert, thy hour is past,
Thy beaming day is ended. Thou art gone,
Fleeting and transient as the cloud of morn,
And only this poor feeble outline lives,
This stol'n resemblance of thy trembling shade,
Cast by the midnight taper on the wall,
And sorrowfully pencil'd ere thy lips
Were cold in death. Yes, this poor shade alone
Is all that Heav'n has left me, and e'en this
Had not been mine to weep o'er and to love,
But that my daring pencil, spite of grief,
The feature copied when the soul was fled.
Dear welcome image, in my bosom dwell.
Forsake me never. Let me love thee still,
And often gaze upon thy lifeless cheek
Till blinded sorrow has no eye to see.
Let me the kiss of ecstasy imprint
On thy cold lips, oft as my sinking soul
With recollection bows of those dear hours
When thy belov'd original was mine,
To speak to and caress. Then go in peace,
And to the mansion of my heart return,
Whence none but death shall pluck thee. There repose
In mute security till life be spent.
Nought that reminds me of the maid I lov'd,
Nor aught that she applauded or esteem'd,
Shall from my sight depart. Therefore shall you,
Ye gentle doves, familiar to the hand,
Whom goodness long experienc'd has made tame
And nothing fearful of the touch of man,
Under my roof still live, and still enjoy
Provision plenteous. Isabel your lives
Redeem'd for pity, and the debt forgave:
Dying herself, your liberty she ask'd
Of thirsty violence; and ye shall fall,
When nature pleases, without shedding blood.
And thou too, tabby fav'rite, tho' thy eye
Stranger to tears no sorrow has express'd,
Still sporting on the hearth, tho' Isabel,
Thy fond protectress, is thy friend no more,
Thou, gentle kitten, shalt no morning-meal
With slender tone petitionary ask,
But I will yield it. Sit upon my knee,
And whisper pleasure, gratitude, and love,
For favour well bestow'd: thy silky neck
Still offer to the pressure of my hand,
And fear no evil: frisk upon the floor,
And cuff the cushion or suspended cork
Till riot make thee weary: slumber then
In the warm sunbeam on the window's ledge,
Till from thy fur the spark electric spring;
Or doze upon the elbow of my chair,
Or on my shoulder, or my knee, while I,
Lost in some dream of happiness deceas'd,
Steal from reflection pleasure, and beguile
A morning's march across the vale of life
By musing upon comforts now no more.
Or if sweet sleep not please thee, with the cord
And dangling tassel of the curtain play,
Or seize the grumbling hornet, or pert wasp,
Intruding ever, while I smile remote
At danger brav'd by vent'rous ignorance
And anger ill-escap'd. Only forbear
To tease the fly and inoffensive moth,
As Isabel forbade thee. Least of all
Fasten thy talons on the fenceless dove,
For that were murder not to be excus'd.

O changeable and fleeting world! The hour
E'en now, by time's repeating tongue announc'd,
Completes the circle of twelve speedy months
Since I my Isabel, with heart elate
And proud of its possession, at the ball
Beheld triumphant; since her rapid hand
The harp's sweet strings with emulation smote,
And easily victorious won the palm,
Yet blush'd to take it as not well deserv'd.
Where is she now? O soul-distracting thought!
Open thy caverns, earth, and bless my sight
With one short interview of her I mourn.
And thou, great God, forgive me, if I burst
The portal of the grave, ill-reconcil'd
To this thy hard decree. Ye silent dead,
I come to weep in your profound abodes,
To shed my tears within your mould'ring vaults,
'Mid eyeless sculls and dissipated bones.
I have a father somewhere. Here he lies.
Good man, I much respect thee, tho' my tears
Grac'd not thy fun'ral hour; a child too young
To know the value of the friend he lost.
Repose in peace. Thy children shall be mine.
I come not now to weep thee, but to seek
My long-lov'd Isabel, of all thy train
Save one the youngest, and of all thy train
Excepting none the loveliest. Here she sleeps,
Known to a father scarce twelve little moons,
To me a daughter for twelve precious years
Twice told. Thou tenant of the gloomy vault,
Whom these dark boards have prison'd from my sight,
Thou sleeping angel, in a treble chest
Thrice lock'd and bolted, let me the harsh screw,
Which thy sweet smile confines from its firm hold,
Wrench hatefully away: let me the seam,
Which o'er thy silent innermost recess
Strong cement closes, resolutely burst,
To view thy welcome countenance again.
Where are the lips, which mine so oft have press'd
In joyous welcome and in sad adieu?
Where are the eyes, which ne'er encounter'd these
But to relate, in eloquence how sweet,
In poetry how charming, the soft tale
Of daughterly affection? Where, oh where
Is the sweet voice that charm'd my soul to rest,
And made my cottage but a step from heav'n?
Where is the hand, so welcome to my touch,
So skill'd to gratify my thirsting ear
With harmony's full measure of delight?
Obstruction hence! impediment away!
Tho' universal hell my arm oppose
I will again behold her. Lend me, Death,
Lend me, grim monster, thy eternal bar,
Thy massy lever, that upheaves the lid
Of the mephitic marble-jaw'd abyss,
And I shall all prevail. Lo! it is done.

Ah me! is this my Isabel? Are these
The lips where health his odoriferous gales
And vernal roses shed? Are these the balls
Whose dew so often fell to sooth my pain
Or welcome my return, provoking still
The latent sympathy my looks denied,
Till my heart melted and my eye o'erflow'd?
Are these the fingers that so charm'd my ear?
Is this the hand that dwelt upon my arm
So many summers in the ev'ning walk?
The hand that serv'd me with good-will so free,
Guided the pen so fairly, and the heart
So sweetly portray'd on the vacant leaf?
How chang'd and how disguis'd! Dear lovely maid,
These wasted features, and this dread attire
Deprive thee of all semblance. But for these
External horrors which thy limbs enclose,
And this thy name engraven, I should deem
Delusion bound me in her subtle chain:
Whither, oh whither is thy beauty fled?

Great God of change, unchangeable thyself,
How transient are thy works! The very world
Is but a beauteous flow'r, whose sweet leaves
Still fade to flourish, still revive to die.
The tide once overwhelm'd it, and the frown
Of Him who made it has its tender branch
Oft wither'd. It shall perish once again
E'en to the root, and yet revive and live.
And so shalt thou, sweet Isabel, return.
Heav'n speed the day. Eternal Deity,
Be it thy pleasure to restore her soon.
Restore her now. Let my unhallow'd lips
The word convey. Archangel, blow the trump,
And send thy death-subduing summons forth,
That hell may hear and tremble: let old earth
Quake to her broad foundations at thy blast,
And gasp and heave with agonies intense
To give her kindred millions second birth:
Let heav'n be open'd, and the spotless Judge
Upon the clouds descend, the shout of Gods
Wafting his chariot to the world he won.
I will not fly, tho' conscious of offence,
And many a talent wasted and ill-us'd,
Till I have seen my Isabel awake
To bless me with a smile. Why stays the hour?
Why slumbers justice at her chariot side?
Have I no voice in heav'n? Then sorrow come,
And shed no drop of comfort in my cup;
Here let me die, the victim of regret,
And sleep till mercy wake me, till relief
Wipe all away my tears, and bid me live,
For misery is no more. Close at thy side,
Ingenious Isabel, let me be laid,
Never to leave thee: may the daring wretch
Who parts my bones from thine, feel never peace,
But sigh for agonies severe as these.
Sweet maid, I lov'd and rear'd thee as I could,
And ask forgiveness that I did no more.

Must I still live? Great God, at thy command
I close my lips. I will no more complain.
I will return to life, however sharp,
Nor quit it till thy summons call me hence.
Adieu, my love, sweet Isabel, adieu!
My lost companion, exquisitely dear,
I leave thy cold and solitary cell
To visit life again; I shall not long
Be absent from thy side; these ling'ring pains,
Effect of vigilance and much concern,
And fretful melancholy, pining still
For thee my treasure lost, will yet prevail,
And weigh me down to death: departed maid,
Soon to thy side I come: and, bounteous God,
Grant me this blessing, never to be mov'd
From this my spot of coveted repose
Till the loud trump of resurrection blow.
Then (hear me Heav'n!) let these lamenting eyes,
Which saw my lovely Isabel depart,
First wake to endless being, and with tears
Of joy profuse her renovation mark.
Let me behold her, as the gentle warmth
Of life rekindles, as her glowing cheek
The hue of health recovers, as her pulse
Begins again to throb, her lip to breathe;
Then let me wake her with an ardent kiss,
And with a flood of transport bless the day
Which makes her mine for ever. Day remote,
And long to be expected: for not yet
Shall pass this world away; nor yet shall come
The fun'ral of the globe, tho' earth be old,
And oft betray her symptom of decline.
No! I have long to tarry ere the morn
Of restoration dawn, and many a slow
And weary winter must I urge away:
Distress and sickness, sorrow, care, and pain,
Must I endure alone; shed many tears,
Lament for comforts gone, and thro' the dark
And dismal cave of dissolution march,
Ere I can meet my Isabel again.
And even then my pittance of desert
Shall ill entitle me her bliss to share,
Tho' heav'n be bountiful, and much forgive;
Tho' it attribute merits not our own
To us who need. Then what is life to me?
The cage of discontent, dark prison-house
Of sorrow and complaint, which I nor dare
To quit, nor hope to dwell in. Happier days
Once found me loit'ring, but such days are fled.

Yes, I was happier once, and fondly sung
Of comforts not dissembled, of my cot,
And sweet amusements which attract no more.
Methought my song should ever be content,
Plac'd by my God where I was richly bless'd,
In such a nook of life, that I nor wish'd
Nor fancied aught that could have pleas'd me more.
So sings the summer linnet on the bough,
And, pleas'd with the warm sun-beam, half asleep,
The feeble sonnet of supine content
To his Creator warbles; warbles sweet,
And not contemn'd, till some unfeeling boy
His piece unheeded levels, and with show'r
Of leaden mischief his ill-utter'd song
Suddenly closes: pines the songster then,
Wounded and scar'd, flutters from bough to bough,
Complains and dies; or lingers life away
In silent anguish, and is heard no more.

My God, have I arraign'd thee? Let thy bow
Ten thousand arrows in this bosom fix,
Yet will I own thee just. Take all away;
Leave me no friend, but let me weep alone
At mute affliction's solitary board.
Summon Cecilia to an early grave,
And let her tribe of cheerful graces fade,
Fast as the flow'r she gathers: let the worm
Prey on the roses of Eliza's cheek:
Yet will I bless thee. For to this harsh world
I came a beggar, but sufficient bread
Have never needed; thy indulgent hand
Fed and sustain'd me, and sustains me still;
Nor feel I hardship which thy partial rod
To me alone dispenses: bitter loss,
Sorrow and misery o'erflow the cup
Of many a soul more innocent than mine.

Behold yon village church, whose humble tow'r
Stands in a vale between two lofty hills
Upon the confines of the winter's flood;
There Caroletta sleeps. Poor hapless girl!
She saw a daring brother bound in chains,
And visited his dungeon—saw the sword
Of angry justice waving o'er his head—
Blush'd for his shame—absconded from the world—
Pin'd into sickness— and, the culprit dead,
Close at his heels went down into the grave.
So beauty, virtue, piety, and youth
Fell in an instant, and the scythe of time
Cut from the root, with one determin'd blow,
The noisome thistle and the harmless rose.
A rose too delicate and winning fair
For the deserted village where it grew,
And happily remov'd to bloom in heav'n.

Conduct thine eye along that chain of hills,
Observe a steeple at the mountain's foot,
Girded by woodland; there Aurelia liv'd,
And to her happy spouse, the Vicar, bore
Six smiling infants. To maturer years
Each rose in turn, but, ere the hour was past
Which childhood limits, one grew sick and died:
Another linger'd, and another fell:
A third departed; and thus clos'd the grave
On three sweet maidens in the bloom of life:
A duteous son then fell, by frenzy seiz'd,
Ere education her expensive work
Had well accomplish'd, and the letter'd youth
Dismiss'd a graduate: yet another liv'd,
But liv'd remote upon the Indian shore,
Nor there liv'd long, but died: the Vicar then
To heav'n was summon'd, and his weeping spouse,
With only one poor sickly daughter left,
Fled from the vale, and was not heard of more.

Then let not me complain, but o'er thy grave,
Departed Isabel, my tablet place,
And to my hearth return; content that heav'n,
Which all might challenge, has yet spar'd me much.
“Adieu, sweet maid, whom death untimely smote,
“As eager winter nips the bud of spring,
“For blossoming too early. Here secure,
“While judgment tarries, in the dust repose,
“And while, less happy thro' the vale of life,
“We toil in tears without thee. Yet not long
“Shall death divide us: swift as the dove's wing
“Shall pass the moments of this changeful stage,
“And soon our bones shall meet: here will we sleep,
“Here wake together, and from hence ascend
“(If haply innocence like thine be ours)
“To love which no affliction shall disturb.”

Ye kind and cheerful partners of my roof,
Receive me once again, and once again,
Welcome associates of my humble board,
Smile at my entrance, and assuage my pain
With pure esteem's reiterated kiss.
Cecilia, let thy finger fill my ear
With the sweet concord of subduing sounds,
Prelude to serious song. Let thy free voice,
Eliza, sooth me with some plaintive air,
Till peace and comfort fill my breast again.
Steal me away from grief, and grief from me.
Let not your hearts be sad, tho' on my cheek
Dull melancholy dwell, and from my brow
Depart reluctant as the low'ring gloom
Of mid-November: yet this cloud shall pass,
And float away with sensible retreat
In the returning sunshine of content.
This frown of winter shall again be chas'd
By the sweet smile of spring: summer shall come,
And joy shall blossom from ten thousand buds,
Gay as the nectarine, tho' now its branch
Seem to be blasted by a with'ring frost,
Never to flourish more. Come then, my loves,
Still let improvement be our daily care;
And let us rise to this our welcome task
Soon as the lark of May, which soars aloft
In the first glimpse of morning, and performs
A darkling anthem at the gates of heav'n:
Let us pursue it, earnest as the bee,
Searching the raspberry's unfolded bloom,
Which never leaves it till the sun is couch'd,
The longest summer's day; yea, travels still,
And with the nightingale her strain prolongs
E'en in the moon-beam, when the vale is hush'd,
And ev'ry idler bird gone home to bed.
This be our only care, till waning life
Has number'd all its sands: and then one grave
Receive us all, and be one only vault
The darksome cell of our imprison'd bones.
Thither let nature lead us one by one,
Nothing despairing, tho' with plenteous tears
Haply bewailing intermitted love,
As now we weep o'er Isabel deceas'd.
No proud inscription memorize the spot,
To which our ashes are gone down in hope:
But let one unadorn'd and modest stone,
Plain and sincere, say only, “Here he lies,
“And here lie those he lov'd, and those he sung.”
Under the altar of yon village church,
Which stands upon a hillock in the vale,
And looks toward the foamy swelling deep,
Close by the side of Isabel so dear,
Will we repose together; there to rest,
Till at the dawn of everlasting doom
The summoning Archangel lift his trump,
And blow the dead to life. Then shall we wake
To sweet renewal of unceasing love,
To surer peace, and union without end.

Thou bounteous Author of all human bliss,
Give me whatever lot thy wisdom deems
Meet and convenient—pleasure, if thou wilt—
If not, then pain—and be it sharp as this,
My heart, tho' wounded, shall adore thee still.