Isabelle
The sun had set upon the shore,
Which murmur'd to the Hurlgate's roar;
Where thousand pennons floated free,
In graceful folds above the sea;
Till dusky twilight's sombre hue
Obscured the beauty of the view.
The island city's busy din,
Where late the noisy crowd had been,
" Subsided in the gloom;
And dark without, but bright within,
Grew many a happy home.
To one it was a festal night,
Devoted all to wild delight,
To merriment and mirth;
Few are the maids that may compare
With her, the loved, the pure, the fair,
Who call'd these feelings forth;
And many bosom friends were met,
In festival to celebrate
The evening of her birth,
A massive, crystal chandelier,
Illumed with lustre, soft and clear,
That wide and splendid hall, —
Where richly glow'd in every part
The painter's skill, the sculptor's art,
With mirror bright and wreath'd festoon,
Mingled in that superb saloon,
And hung around the wall.
The board is set, —
The guests are met, —
Joy animates the throng;
And beauty's smiles,
And pleasure's wiles
The varied feast prolong.
With flashes bright,
Of dazzling light,
Beams many a lovely eye;
While the rosy cheek,
And the red lip speak
Of joyous thoughts and high;
As the spirit of bliss,
In an hour like this,
Had stolen from the sky,
To revel in mirth,
'Mid the sons of earth,
And the minstrel's melody.
Their hearts are warm'd with unwonted glow,
Their feelings are fed by the freshest flow,
And were it thus ever, the earth might be
A dwelling meet for eternity.
Now fill the goblet to the brim, —
And the cup with rosy wine,
Till the cheek be sunk and the eye be dim
It will sweeten life's decline:
And the maidens laugh,
As their lovers quaff
A health to beauty's shrine.
Bland pleasure waves her silken crest,
And sounds her magic shell;
Responsive wakes, in every guest,
The sympathetic spell;
Each brow is bright, and every breast
Throbs with ecstatic swell;
Save hers, the sweetest and the best,
The gentle mistress of the feast,
The lovely Isabelle.
For her lover has rush'd at his country's call,
His country's fame to save,
He has left his home and his father's hall,
To preserve from the angry Lion's thrall
The Eagle of the brave.
He is gone to the West, to the far frontier,
Unto Erie's stormy shore,
Where the warrior at midnight starts to hear
The thundering cannon's roar;
And the shrieks of the dying pierce the ear.
Till they sleep to wake no more.
Young Duncan loved, as a hero may,
With a fervent, quenchless love; — for they
Who are true to their country's fame,
Will deepest conceal, but will warmest feel
The love but one may claim.
And sad was the hour which saw him depart,
And pronounce the last farewell;
But sadder still thenceforth was the heart
Of the gentle Isabelle.
And now she sat in thoughtful mood,
As if in pensiveness to brood
O'er some impending ill;
While wit and mirth the tables crown'd,
And merry voices rang around,
Where she alone was still;
And oft as rose the peals of gladness,
She sank in more absorbing sadness.
The banquet ceased, but more refined,
Remain'd the banquet of the mind;
While love and friendship strew'd the hours
With youthful feeling's choicest flow'rs;
Till music's notes to rapture rung,
And passion gazed while beauty sung; —
Yet still a deeper sadness fell
Upon the breast of Isabelle.
Her friends to rally her, in vain
Call forth the lyre's enchanting strain; —
Though each in turn the task begin,
With soothing notes her mind to win;
They cannot reach the train of thought,
That lies too deep to be forgot.
At length they call on Isabelle
To sing the strains they love so well.
With many a kind and pressing word,
She sits beside her harpsichord;
Then solemnly and mournfully,
Pours forth, a plaintive symphony; —
And wild, and wailing, as the grief
To which no time can bring relief, —
While deep excitement swells each vein,
Sings sweetly this prophetic strain.
" He is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,
Like a summer-dried fountain,
When our need was the sorest!
The font, re-appearing,
From the rain-drops shall borrow,
But to us comes no cheering,
To Duncan no morrow!
" The hand of the reaper
Takes the ears that are hoary,
But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in glory.
The autumn winds rushing,
Waft the leaves that are searest,
But our flow'r was in flushing,
When blighting was nearest.
" Fleet foot on the correi,
Sage counsel in cumber,
Red hand in the foray,
How sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou'rt gone and for ever. "
She paused, and now, as if inspired,
With superhuman visions fired,
A solemn prelude, wild and vague,
Announced the battle piece of Prague.
At first it seems with hurried speed,
The distant troops their marches lead;
While echoing clarions swell the strain,
That leads them to the battle plain.
Then rings the trumpet's call to arms,
Then beat the doubled drum's alarms;
Then rank by rank the squadrons wheel.
'Mid cannon's roar and musket's peal;
Rush on to the charge, till they break and retire,
'Neath sulphurous clouds, amid flashing fire,
Where the fallen wounded with groans expire,
While the awful God of War rides thund'ring in his ire!
Thus, as the battle-song progresses,
With vivid touch the keys she presses;
Wakes the deep compass of the notes,
Like thunder from the cannon's throats,
And strikes — hush, hush, she stops, she cries
" Oh mercy, Heaven! my Duncan dies! "
She faints, — she falls! — haste to her aid! —
Bear from the halls the sinking maid! —
Bring water! perfume, odors rare!
Open the casement to the air!
Away! bring in the healing art! . . . .
But can it reach the wounded heart? . . . .
Hush! heard ye not that boding knell?
Oh! God of Heaven, save Isabelle!
" Pardon, dear friends, our broken feast,
A kind good night to every guest;
And may a happier morning light
Restore the pleasures of this night. "
The guests are departed, the hall is forlorn;
The maiden beloved to her chamber is borne;
She rests, on the pillow design'd for a bride;
Her kindred are gather'd and stand by her side.
" Awake, Isabelle! 'tis your mother who cries, "
And feebly and slowly she opens her eyes, —
Looks briefly to heav'n, then murmurs with pain,
" 'Tis sweet, dearest Duncan, to meet you again!
Farewell, my dear mother, farewell! " — 'tis the last;
Her soul has departed, her trials are past.
Her parents are weeping; she sheds not a tear;
Loved voices are calling; but she does noThear.
She sleeps, with the host that no dream shall awaken,
Till the tomb shall be left by its ashes forsaken;
She rests from life's pilgrimage, feels not its sorrow; —
Her journey is over, she heeds not the morrow.
The hyacinth blossom is plucked from its stein,
The casket is broken, and gone is the gem!
Pale Death, the grim archer, hath bended his bow;
The arrow hath sped, and the dove is brought low!
Oh! fair was the victim thus fated to bleed,
And well might the spoiler exult in his deed!
And still were they weeping for Isabelle,
When tidings came that young Duncan fell
In the battle's front, 'mid the enemy's gore,
On Niagara's foam-clad, star-spangled banner on high,
And raising the shout of victory!
Which murmur'd to the Hurlgate's roar;
Where thousand pennons floated free,
In graceful folds above the sea;
Till dusky twilight's sombre hue
Obscured the beauty of the view.
The island city's busy din,
Where late the noisy crowd had been,
" Subsided in the gloom;
And dark without, but bright within,
Grew many a happy home.
To one it was a festal night,
Devoted all to wild delight,
To merriment and mirth;
Few are the maids that may compare
With her, the loved, the pure, the fair,
Who call'd these feelings forth;
And many bosom friends were met,
In festival to celebrate
The evening of her birth,
A massive, crystal chandelier,
Illumed with lustre, soft and clear,
That wide and splendid hall, —
Where richly glow'd in every part
The painter's skill, the sculptor's art,
With mirror bright and wreath'd festoon,
Mingled in that superb saloon,
And hung around the wall.
The board is set, —
The guests are met, —
Joy animates the throng;
And beauty's smiles,
And pleasure's wiles
The varied feast prolong.
With flashes bright,
Of dazzling light,
Beams many a lovely eye;
While the rosy cheek,
And the red lip speak
Of joyous thoughts and high;
As the spirit of bliss,
In an hour like this,
Had stolen from the sky,
To revel in mirth,
'Mid the sons of earth,
And the minstrel's melody.
Their hearts are warm'd with unwonted glow,
Their feelings are fed by the freshest flow,
And were it thus ever, the earth might be
A dwelling meet for eternity.
Now fill the goblet to the brim, —
And the cup with rosy wine,
Till the cheek be sunk and the eye be dim
It will sweeten life's decline:
And the maidens laugh,
As their lovers quaff
A health to beauty's shrine.
Bland pleasure waves her silken crest,
And sounds her magic shell;
Responsive wakes, in every guest,
The sympathetic spell;
Each brow is bright, and every breast
Throbs with ecstatic swell;
Save hers, the sweetest and the best,
The gentle mistress of the feast,
The lovely Isabelle.
For her lover has rush'd at his country's call,
His country's fame to save,
He has left his home and his father's hall,
To preserve from the angry Lion's thrall
The Eagle of the brave.
He is gone to the West, to the far frontier,
Unto Erie's stormy shore,
Where the warrior at midnight starts to hear
The thundering cannon's roar;
And the shrieks of the dying pierce the ear.
Till they sleep to wake no more.
Young Duncan loved, as a hero may,
With a fervent, quenchless love; — for they
Who are true to their country's fame,
Will deepest conceal, but will warmest feel
The love but one may claim.
And sad was the hour which saw him depart,
And pronounce the last farewell;
But sadder still thenceforth was the heart
Of the gentle Isabelle.
And now she sat in thoughtful mood,
As if in pensiveness to brood
O'er some impending ill;
While wit and mirth the tables crown'd,
And merry voices rang around,
Where she alone was still;
And oft as rose the peals of gladness,
She sank in more absorbing sadness.
The banquet ceased, but more refined,
Remain'd the banquet of the mind;
While love and friendship strew'd the hours
With youthful feeling's choicest flow'rs;
Till music's notes to rapture rung,
And passion gazed while beauty sung; —
Yet still a deeper sadness fell
Upon the breast of Isabelle.
Her friends to rally her, in vain
Call forth the lyre's enchanting strain; —
Though each in turn the task begin,
With soothing notes her mind to win;
They cannot reach the train of thought,
That lies too deep to be forgot.
At length they call on Isabelle
To sing the strains they love so well.
With many a kind and pressing word,
She sits beside her harpsichord;
Then solemnly and mournfully,
Pours forth, a plaintive symphony; —
And wild, and wailing, as the grief
To which no time can bring relief, —
While deep excitement swells each vein,
Sings sweetly this prophetic strain.
" He is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,
Like a summer-dried fountain,
When our need was the sorest!
The font, re-appearing,
From the rain-drops shall borrow,
But to us comes no cheering,
To Duncan no morrow!
" The hand of the reaper
Takes the ears that are hoary,
But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in glory.
The autumn winds rushing,
Waft the leaves that are searest,
But our flow'r was in flushing,
When blighting was nearest.
" Fleet foot on the correi,
Sage counsel in cumber,
Red hand in the foray,
How sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou'rt gone and for ever. "
She paused, and now, as if inspired,
With superhuman visions fired,
A solemn prelude, wild and vague,
Announced the battle piece of Prague.
At first it seems with hurried speed,
The distant troops their marches lead;
While echoing clarions swell the strain,
That leads them to the battle plain.
Then rings the trumpet's call to arms,
Then beat the doubled drum's alarms;
Then rank by rank the squadrons wheel.
'Mid cannon's roar and musket's peal;
Rush on to the charge, till they break and retire,
'Neath sulphurous clouds, amid flashing fire,
Where the fallen wounded with groans expire,
While the awful God of War rides thund'ring in his ire!
Thus, as the battle-song progresses,
With vivid touch the keys she presses;
Wakes the deep compass of the notes,
Like thunder from the cannon's throats,
And strikes — hush, hush, she stops, she cries
" Oh mercy, Heaven! my Duncan dies! "
She faints, — she falls! — haste to her aid! —
Bear from the halls the sinking maid! —
Bring water! perfume, odors rare!
Open the casement to the air!
Away! bring in the healing art! . . . .
But can it reach the wounded heart? . . . .
Hush! heard ye not that boding knell?
Oh! God of Heaven, save Isabelle!
" Pardon, dear friends, our broken feast,
A kind good night to every guest;
And may a happier morning light
Restore the pleasures of this night. "
The guests are departed, the hall is forlorn;
The maiden beloved to her chamber is borne;
She rests, on the pillow design'd for a bride;
Her kindred are gather'd and stand by her side.
" Awake, Isabelle! 'tis your mother who cries, "
And feebly and slowly she opens her eyes, —
Looks briefly to heav'n, then murmurs with pain,
" 'Tis sweet, dearest Duncan, to meet you again!
Farewell, my dear mother, farewell! " — 'tis the last;
Her soul has departed, her trials are past.
Her parents are weeping; she sheds not a tear;
Loved voices are calling; but she does noThear.
She sleeps, with the host that no dream shall awaken,
Till the tomb shall be left by its ashes forsaken;
She rests from life's pilgrimage, feels not its sorrow; —
Her journey is over, she heeds not the morrow.
The hyacinth blossom is plucked from its stein,
The casket is broken, and gone is the gem!
Pale Death, the grim archer, hath bended his bow;
The arrow hath sped, and the dove is brought low!
Oh! fair was the victim thus fated to bleed,
And well might the spoiler exult in his deed!
And still were they weeping for Isabelle,
When tidings came that young Duncan fell
In the battle's front, 'mid the enemy's gore,
On Niagara's foam-clad, star-spangled banner on high,
And raising the shout of victory!
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