To Isabel.
By Nora Pembroke (Margaret Moran Dixon McDougall)
I often thought to write to thee, what time
I almost fancied heaven-born, genius mine,
And fondly hoped my island harp to wake,
To some new strain sung for my country's sake.
'Twas a vain hope and yet its presence smiled
Upon my day dreams when I was a child,
And only faded when my heart grew cold,
For head and heart alike are getting old.
Had I been gifted, some bright lay would be,
With touching melody, poured forth for thee.
Now, what I think the best I wish for thee.
* * *
May you never be a stranger;
Ever living with your own,
With the same eyes beaming round you,
That on your childhood shone.
Friendship knitting true hearts to you,
From youth to kindly age;
And affection brightening, gladdening
Your pleasant heritage.
Yet not wishing to live always,
Or shrinking back afraid,
When you come--as come we all must
And pass over to the dead.
With a hope then firmly anchored,
Of a living faith possessed,
Passing from among your kindred
Into everlasting rest.