 | English Roses |  |
99
ISOBEL.
Isobel is fair, Isobel is true.
Isobel has serious eyes,
Like the gray of English skies
Melting into blue.
Sober seems her walk and sedate her smile,
And her laughter is caught up
Deftly as a spilling cup,
With unconscious guile.
Nowise may she quite all forget the due
Paid to womanhood, and charms
Yielding not too ready arms—
Isobel is true.
Isobel has serious eyes,
Like the gray of English skies
Melting into blue.
Sober seems her walk and sedate her smile,
And her laughter is caught up
Deftly as a spilling cup,
With unconscious guile.
Nowise may she quite all forget the due
Paid to womanhood, and charms
Yielding not too ready arms—
Isobel is true.
Isobel is calm, Isobel is kind,
And the Sabbath in her voice
Rises only to rejoice
With a modest mind.
Easily she bends in the passing play,
But she never can relent
Fully, if she does consent
To an idle way.
But to error vain she is fondly blind,
And remembers not the sin
Of a neighbour so akin—
Isobel is kind.
And the Sabbath in her voice
Rises only to rejoice
With a modest mind.
Easily she bends in the passing play,
But she never can relent
Fully, if she does consent
To an idle way.
But to error vain she is fondly blind,
And remembers not the sin
Of a neighbour so akin—
Isobel is kind.
Isobel is pure, Isobel is good,
And her very sight the sayer
Of a music more than prayer,
White as maidenhood.
With a careful step and straight on she moves
To her predetermined end,
Half an angel, all a friend,
As each trial proves.
When I bare my cross she beside it stood,
And the burden that must be
Fell on her instead of me—
Isobel is good.
And her very sight the sayer
Of a music more than prayer,
White as maidenhood.
With a careful step and straight on she moves
To her predetermined end,
Half an angel, all a friend,
As each trial proves.
When I bare my cross she beside it stood,
And the burden that must be
Fell on her instead of me—
Isobel is good.
100
Isobel is strong, Isobel is true,
And the beauty of her creed
Only from another's need
Takes its heavenly hue.
Glad at heart she is, though for ever grave,
And the native melody
Of a near eternity
Formed that willing slave.
To a wandering soul she is just the clue,
Guiding softly, surely back
Unto rest and out of wrack—
Isobel is true.
And the beauty of her creed
Only from another's need
Takes its heavenly hue.
Glad at heart she is, though for ever grave,
And the native melody
Of a near eternity
Formed that willing slave.
To a wandering soul she is just the clue,
Guiding softly, surely back
Unto rest and out of wrack—
Isobel is true.
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