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.