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371
ISADORE.
Thou art lost to me for ever,—I have lost thee, Isadore!
Thy head will never rest upon my loyal bosom more,
Thy tender eyes will never more look fondly into mine,
Nor thine arms around me lovingly and trustingly entwine,—
Thou art lost to me for ever, Isadore!
Thy head will never rest upon my loyal bosom more,
Thy tender eyes will never more look fondly into mine,
Nor thine arms around me lovingly and trustingly entwine,—
Thou art lost to me for ever, Isadore!
Thou art dead and gone, dear loving wife, thy heart is still and cold,
And I, at one stride have become most comfortless and old:
Of our whole world of love and song thou wast the only light,
A star, whose setting left behind, ah me! how dark a night!
Thou art lost to me for ever, Isadore!
And I, at one stride have become most comfortless and old:
Of our whole world of love and song thou wast the only light,
A star, whose setting left behind, ah me! how dark a night!
Thou art lost to me for ever, Isadore!
The vines and flowers we planted, love, I tend with anxious care,
And yet they droop and fade away, as though they wanted air:
They cannot live without thine eyes to glad them with their light;
Since thy hands ceased to train them, love, they cannot grow aright,
Thou art lost to them for ever, Isadore!
And yet they droop and fade away, as though they wanted air:
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Since thy hands ceased to train them, love, they cannot grow aright,
Thou art lost to them for ever, Isadore!
Our little ones inquire of me, where is their mother gone,—
What answer can I make to them, except with tears alone?
For if I say, to heaven,—then the poor things wish to learn,
How far it is, and where, and when their mother will return:
Thou art lost to them for ever, Isadore!
What answer can I make to them, except with tears alone?
For if I say, to heaven,—then the poor things wish to learn,
How far it is, and where, and when their mother will return:
Thou art lost to them for ever, Isadore!
Our happy home has now become a lonely, silent place,—
Like heaven without its stars it is, without thy blessed face:
Our little ones are still and sad;—none love them now but I,
Except their mother's spirit, which I feel is always nigh:
Thou watchest us from heaven, Isadore!
Like heaven without its stars it is, without thy blessed face:
Our little ones are still and sad;—none love them now but I,
Except their mother's spirit, which I feel is always nigh:
Thou watchest us from heaven, Isadore!
Their merry laugh is heard no more, they neither run nor play,
But wander round like little ghosts, the long, long summer-day:
The spider weaves his web across the windows at his will,
The flowers I gathered for thee last are on the mantel still;
Thou art lost to me for ever, Isadore!
But wander round like little ghosts, the long, long summer-day:
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The flowers I gathered for thee last are on the mantel still;
Thou art lost to me for ever, Isadore!
My footsteps through the rooms sound sad, I play our songs no more,
The garish sun shines flauntingly upon the unswept floor;
The mocking-bird still sits and sings, a melancholy strain,
For my heart is like a summer-cloud that overflows with rain;
Thou art lost to me for ever, Isadore!
The garish sun shines flauntingly upon the unswept floor;
The mocking-bird still sits and sings, a melancholy strain,
For my heart is like a summer-cloud that overflows with rain;
Thou art lost to me for ever, Isadore!
Alas! how changed is all, dear wife, from that sweet eve in spring,
When first my love for thee was told, and thou didst to me cling,
Thy sweet eyes radiant through their tears pressing thy lips to mine,
In that old arbor, dear, beneath the over-arching vine;
Those lips are cold for ever, Isadore!
When first my love for thee was told, and thou didst to me cling,
Thy sweet eyes radiant through their tears pressing thy lips to mine,
In that old arbor, dear, beneath the over-arching vine;
Those lips are cold for ever, Isadore!
The moonlight struggled through the leaves, and fell upon thy face,
So lovingly upturning there with pure and trustful gaze:
The southern breezes murmured through the dark cloud of thy hair,
As like a sleeping infant thou didst lean upon me there;
Thine eyes are closed for ever, Isadore!
So lovingly upturning there with pure and trustful gaze:
The southern breezes murmured through the dark cloud of thy hair,
As like a sleeping infant thou didst lean upon me there;
Thine eyes are closed for ever, Isadore!
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Thy love and faith so plighted then, with mingled smile and tear,
Was never broken, sweetest one, while thou didst linger here:
Nor angry word, nor angry look thou ever gavest me,
But loved and trusted evermore, as I did worship thee;
Thou art lost to me for ever, Isadore!
Was never broken, sweetest one, while thou didst linger here:
Nor angry word, nor angry look thou ever gavest me,
But loved and trusted evermore, as I did worship thee;
Thou art lost to me for ever, Isadore!
Thou wast my nurse in sickness, and my comforter in health,
So gentle and so constant, when our love was all our wealth:
Thy voice of music soothed me, love, in each desponding hour,
As heaven's sweet honey-dew consoles the bruised and broken flower;
Thou art lost to me for ever, Isadore!
So gentle and so constant, when our love was all our wealth:
Thy voice of music soothed me, love, in each desponding hour,
As heaven's sweet honey-dew consoles the bruised and broken flower;
Thou art lost to me for ever, Isadore!
Thou art gone from me for ever:—I have lost thee, Isadore!—
And desolate and lonely shall I be for evermore:
If it were not for our children's sake, I would not wish to stay,
But would pray to God most earnestly to let me pass away,
And be joined to thee in heaven, Isadore!
And desolate and lonely shall I be for evermore:
If it were not for our children's sake, I would not wish to stay,
But would pray to God most earnestly to let me pass away,
And be joined to thee in heaven, Isadore!
1843.
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