To Isadore By Abijah M. Ide


    Beneath the vine-clad eaves,
    Whose shadows fall before
    Thy lowly cottage door
    Under the lilac�s tremulous leaves,
    Within thy snowy claspe�d hand
    The 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!


    And when I bade the dream
    Upon thy spirit flee,
    Thy violet eyes to me
    Upturned, did overflowing seem
    With the deep, untold delight
    Of Love�s serenity;
    Thy classic brow, like lilies white
    And pale as the Imperial Night
    Upon her throne, with stars bedight,
    Enthralled my soul to thee!


    Ah! ever I behold
    Thy dreamy, passionate eyes,
    Blue as the languid skies
    Hung with the sunset�s fringe of gold;
    Now strangely clear thine image grows,
    And olden memories
    Are startled from their long repose
    Like shadows on the silent snows
    When suddenly the night-wind blows
    Where quiet moonlight ties.


    Like music heard in dreams,
    Like strains of harps unknown,
    Of birds forever flown
    Audible as the voice of streams
    That murmur in some leafy dell,
    I hear thy gentlest tone,
    And Silence cometh with her spell
    Like that which on my tongue doth dwell,
    When tremulous in dreams I tell
    My love to thee alone!


    In every valley heard,
    Floating from tree to tree,
    Less beautiful to, me,
    The music of the radiant bird,
    Than artless accents such as thine
    Whose echoes never flee!
    Ah! how for thy sweet voice I pine:
    For uttered in thy tones benign
    (Enchantress!) this rude name of mine
    Doth seem a melody!