TO ISADORE
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Beneath the vine-clad eaves,Whose shadows fall beforeThy lowly cottage doorUnder the lilac’s tremulous leaves—Within thy snowy claspeèd handThe purple flowers it bore.Last eve in dreams, I saw thee stand,Like queenly nymphs from Fairy-land—Enchantress of the flowery wand,Most beauteous Isadore!IIAnd when I bade the dreamUpon thy spirit flee,Thy violet eyes to meUpturned, did overflowing seemWith the deep, untold delightOf Love’s serenity;Thy classic brow, like lilies whiteAnd pale as the Imperial NightUpon her throne, with stars bedight,Enthralled my soul to thee!IIIAh I ever I beholdThy dreamy, passionate eyes,Blue as the languid skiesHung with the sunset’s fringe of gold;Now strangely clear thine image grows,And olden memoriesAre startled from their long reposeLike shadows on the silent snowsWhen suddenly the night-wind blowsWhere quiet moonlight ties.IVLike music heard in dreams,Like strains of harps unknown,Of birds forever flownAudible as the voice of streamsThat murmur in some leafy dell,I hear thy gentlest tone,And Silence cometh with her spellLike that which on my tongue doth dwell,When tremulous in dreams I tellMy love to thee alone!VIn every valley heard,Floating from tree to tree,Less beautiful to, me,The music of the radiant bird,Than artless accents such as thineWhose echoes never flee!Ah! how for thy sweet voice I pine:—For uttered in thy tones benign(Enchantress!) this rude name of mineDoth seem a melody!
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