Poems (Chitwood)/Isabel Lee
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ISABEL LEE.
"Oh, which of my lovers is thinking of me?
For my cheek 's like a cherry," said Isabel Lee,
As pressed she her little white hand on her brow;
"Through whose precious heart is my name sounding now?
Is it Harold, the artist, the while he doth paint,
With a smile on his lips, the fair face of the saint,
Which he said, in the hours of our parting, should wear
A brow like mine own, and the same golden hair?"
Yes, Isabel Lee, the sweet pride of the glen,
The artist was nursing thy memory then;
But he looked on the face he was painting, with dread,
For, somehow, it wore the calm look of the dead.
Sweet Isabel Lee, to the lattice she went,
And her rosy-hued cheek on her folded hands bent.
She mocked the gay thrush on the old cherry-tree
With "Which of my lovers is thinking of me?
Is it Robert, the hunter, afar on the moor?
This morn, ere the sunrise, he stood at my door;
He sued for a rose, that was just to unfold,
And said he 'would deem it more precious than gold;'
I have heard, through the wood, his old rifle ring out,
And the bay of his hounds in victorious shout,
But once since he left, and the noon is now past,
And the shadows creep up to the garden-gate fast;
I wonder, I wonder if, out on the lea,
Dear Robert, the hunter, is thinking of me?"
Yes, Isabel Lee, the sweet pride of the glen,
The hunter was nursing thy memory then;
For as to his lips thy sweet rose-bud was pressed,
The slight stem was broken—it fell on his breast.
Sweet Isabel Lee, she heard the birds sing,
And the cool water fall with a plunge in the spring;
She went with a smile to the old cherry-tree,
And said—"It is Alfred a-thinking of me;
For when I stood here in the moonlight with him
His dark poet-eyes grew all shadowed and dim,
And his voice was the sweetest I ever have heard;
Each pulse in my bosom its echos have stirred.
He said that he loved me, and asked me to be
His bride, when the autumn mists shone o'er the lea."
Yes, Isabel Lee, the sweet pride of the glen,
The poet was nursing thy memory then;
He was saying, "The dream is too sweet, it will be
Like the rose and the rainbow, my Isabel Lee."
Thy cheek hath grown pale, pretty Isabel Lee,
But a lover unthought of was thinking of thee;
His step was unheard on the emerald moor,
His form was unseen, as it stood by the door,
His kiss was not felt, as it lay on thy cheek,
His troth-plight unspoken, as earth-lovers speak;
The flowers for thy bridal are bright on the tree,
The fair snowy robe will be ready for thee;
But Harold, nor Robert, beside thee shall stand;
Nor Alfred, loved Alfred, receive thy fair hand.
O Isabel Lee! the sweet pride of the glen.
Thy bridegroom was nursing thy memory then.
For my cheek 's like a cherry," said Isabel Lee,
As pressed she her little white hand on her brow;
"Through whose precious heart is my name sounding now?
Is it Harold, the artist, the while he doth paint,
With a smile on his lips, the fair face of the saint,
Which he said, in the hours of our parting, should wear
A brow like mine own, and the same golden hair?"
Yes, Isabel Lee, the sweet pride of the glen,
The artist was nursing thy memory then;
But he looked on the face he was painting, with dread,
For, somehow, it wore the calm look of the dead.
Sweet Isabel Lee, to the lattice she went,
And her rosy-hued cheek on her folded hands bent.
She mocked the gay thrush on the old cherry-tree
With "Which of my lovers is thinking of me?
Is it Robert, the hunter, afar on the moor?
This morn, ere the sunrise, he stood at my door;
He sued for a rose, that was just to unfold,
And said he 'would deem it more precious than gold;'
I have heard, through the wood, his old rifle ring out,
And the bay of his hounds in victorious shout,
But once since he left, and the noon is now past,
And the shadows creep up to the garden-gate fast;
I wonder, I wonder if, out on the lea,
Dear Robert, the hunter, is thinking of me?"
Yes, Isabel Lee, the sweet pride of the glen,
The hunter was nursing thy memory then;
For as to his lips thy sweet rose-bud was pressed,
The slight stem was broken—it fell on his breast.
Sweet Isabel Lee, she heard the birds sing,
And the cool water fall with a plunge in the spring;
She went with a smile to the old cherry-tree,
And said—"It is Alfred a-thinking of me;
For when I stood here in the moonlight with him
His dark poet-eyes grew all shadowed and dim,
And his voice was the sweetest I ever have heard;
Each pulse in my bosom its echos have stirred.
He said that he loved me, and asked me to be
His bride, when the autumn mists shone o'er the lea."
Yes, Isabel Lee, the sweet pride of the glen,
The poet was nursing thy memory then;
He was saying, "The dream is too sweet, it will be
Like the rose and the rainbow, my Isabel Lee."
Thy cheek hath grown pale, pretty Isabel Lee,
But a lover unthought of was thinking of thee;
His step was unheard on the emerald moor,
His form was unseen, as it stood by the door,
His kiss was not felt, as it lay on thy cheek,
His troth-plight unspoken, as earth-lovers speak;
The flowers for thy bridal are bright on the tree,
The fair snowy robe will be ready for thee;
But Harold, nor Robert, beside thee shall stand;
Nor Alfred, loved Alfred, receive thy fair hand.
O Isabel Lee! the sweet pride of the glen.
Thy bridegroom was nursing thy memory then.