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.