(Isabella Stewart)

Heart of mine, by thy quick beating, Thou knowest Isabel is near, And the gladness of the greeting Dims my eye with rapture's tear. Heart of mine, each beat will tell How I love young Isabel.

When I first beheld the maiden, So fair to see, so sweet to bless, I, a stranger, sorrow laden, Arrested by her loveliness, Then I thought some hand would set, On that brow a coronet.

She had grace all hearts beguiling, She had the wealth of silken hair, And sweet lips, half proud, half smiling, Neck of snow and bosom fair, And each eye a sapphire gem For a monarch's diadem

Oh, she was peerless in her beauty, Like the fair moon she walked alone, And loving her was but a duty, A spell her loveliness had thrown; And I thought that I could trace Erin's pencil on her face

With the fervour of my nation, I worshipped her as months went by, She was the one constellation, In my cheerless sky; Though on me there never fell One kind glance from Isabel.

Heart of mine we love, we love her, She is still our lady bright, Fairest of them all we prove her Queen of beauty as her right. And in simple verse we tell The praises of fair Isabel.

THOUGHTS.

I am glad when men of genius Array a common thought, In imperishable beauty That it cannot be forgot.

The heart thoughts all bright and burnished By high poetic art, As sweet as the wood-bird's warble Touching the very heart.

Have not I, poor workday mortal, Some thoughts of living light, In the spirit's inner chambers, Moving with spirit might?

And they come in the fair spring time Of heart and life and year, When sweet Nature's wild rejoicings, Draws votaries very near

To the heart of all that's lovely On earth and in the sky; Making audible the music Of the inner melody.

Underlying all the sunshine, Whispering through every breeze, As it crests the ruffled ocean Or sways the forest trees.

Bright thoughts that are heart prisoners Vibrating on its chords, For, alas! I have not genius To bring them forth in words.

But full oft, like friendship's greeting Upon life's weary way, Do I meet in other's language What I most wished to say.

To such words my bosom echoes, I feel they are my own, They bright echo of my day dreams, That else were ever flown.

Ah to think, ye men of genius, What joy your art affords, Giving to the thoughts of millions The dress of glowing words!

And a blessing on these words then To bear them far and free; That they glad the hearts of many As they have gladdened me.