Poems (Holley)/Isabelle and I

by Marietta Holley

ISABELLE AND I.

Isabelle has gold, and lands,
 Fate gave her a fair lot;
Like the white lilies of the field
 Her soft hands toil not.
I gaze upon her splendor
 Without an envious sigh;
I have no wealth in lands and gold.
 And yet sweet peace have I.

I know the blue sky smiles as bright
 On the low field violet,
As on the proud crest of the pine
 On loftiest mountain set.
I am content-God loveth all,
 And if He tenderly
The sparrow guides, He knoweth best
 The place where I should be.

Her violet velvet curtains trail
 Down to the marble floor,
But brightly God's rich sunshine streams
 Into my cottage door;
And not a picture on her walls,
 Hath beauty unto me,
Like that which from my window frame
 I daily lean to see.

She has known such pomp, she careth not
 For any humble sight;
Flowers bending o'er the brook's green edge,
 To her give no delight;
She tends her costly-eastern bird
 With gold upon its wing;
But her wild roses bloom for me,
 For me her wild birds sing.

She tires of home, and fain would see
 The brightest climes of earth,
And so she sails for summer lands
 With friends to share her mirth;
She waves her jewelled hand to me
 The opal spray-clouds fly;
She leaves me with the fading shore-
 Do I envy her? not I.

She will see the sailors' hardened palms
 Curbing the toiling sails,
She will faint beneath the tropic calms
 And face the angry gales.
She will labor for her happiness
 While I've no need to speak,
But on a lotus leaf I float,
 Unto the land they seek.

There, like a dream from out the wave,
 I see a city rise,
I stand entranced, as by a spell,
 Upon the Bridge of Sighs.
The low and measured dip of oars
 Falls softly on my ear
Blent with the tender evening song,
 Of some swart gondolier.

And down from marble terraces
 Veiled ladies slowly pass,
And, entering antique barges,
 Glide down the streets of glass;
And eyes filled with the dew and fire
 Of their own midnight sky,
Gleam full on me, as silently
 The gondolas float by.

The sunset burns, and turns the wave.
 To an enchanted stream,
And far up on the shadowy steeps
 The white walled convents gleam,
The music of their bells float out—
 The sweet wind bears it by,
Adown the warm and sunny slopes,
 Where purple vineyards lie.

And I stand in old cathedrals,
 By tombs of buried kings,
White angels bend above them—
 Mute guard with folded wings.
Far down the aisle the organ peals,
 The priests are knelt in prayer
And memories flood its ancient walls,
 As the music fills the air.

I may not see that blessed land,
 But she roams o'er the sod
The Lord's pure eyes have hallowéd,
 Where once His feet have trod.
Yet He in mercy has drawn near,
 He has me comforted—
So near He seemed I almost felt
 His hand upon my head.

And I with slow and reverent steps
 Through ancient cities roam,
Treading o'er crumbling columns,
 The dust of spire and dome;
The tall and shattered arches
 Their flickering shadows cast,
Like bent and hoary spectres,
 Low murmuring of the past.

And Isabelle toils o'er the Alps.
 Through fields of ice and snow,
To see the lofty glaciers
 Flash in the sun's red glow.
I feel no cold, and yet on high
 Their shining spires I see.
Why should I envy Isabelle?
 Why should she pity me?

Why should I envy Isabelle
 When thus so easily,
Upon a tropic flower's perfume
 I float across the sea?