Isabel.
Are we not happy, Julian? My heart,
Swelled with the fullness of its bliss, beats high:
Thou'rt mine—I know thou'rt mine. Thy wedded wife—
Oh! as I clasp thee in my arms, I feel
Earth hath no purer blessing in its gift.
Julian.
The early Christian, as he poured his soul
Before the holy altar, reared at night
Mid silent wildernesses, felt a pang
Steal through his breast;—he longed in open day
To worship at the shrine. My Isabel,
I hold thee next to Heaven. My love, my faith,
Disdains concealment: as the martyr died,
Acknowledging his God, I too would brave
All peril, to proclaim before the world
My title to thy love. The hallowed name
Of wife springs to my eager lips, mine arms
Are stretched to clasp thee, and my fond eyes graze
In passionate devotion:—I must check
