Poems (Chitwood)/Isabel

by Mary Louisa Chitwood

ISABEL.

There is a little, grassy grave
 In the churchyard corner, lone,
And the simple name of Isabel
 Is graven on the stone.
One white rose blossoms at the head
 In beauty, pure and sweet;
One tuft of azure violets
 Close nestles at the feet.

And fancy conjures up the face,
 As busy fancy must;
Each feature fair I try to trace,
 That long has changed to dust.
Methinks I see the placid face,
 The lashes drooping low,
The sunny curls, halt parted back
 From forehead white as snow.

The dimpled hands, in weak embrace
 Hold sweet flowers, all uncrushed;
I see her in her beauty, yet
 I can not see her dust.
And then I think the mother wept
 Through night's long gloomy hours,
When thinking how her darling slept,
 Beneath the summer flowers.

Or in her dreams the tiny form
 Was sleeping on her breast;
Ah, sad to wake and see the snow
 Deep drifted o'er her rest.
And then I see another sight,
 A child with tearless eyes,
Robed in a robe of spotless white,
 Away in Paradise.
And then I say, "'Tis well, 'tis well,
 Thy rest is not alone."
How blest is little Isabel
 Beneath the mossy stone.