HARK ! heard you not yon mournful bell,
Slow sounding thro’ the gloom;
A lovely victim’s fate to tell,
Call’d early to the tomb.
‘Tis Isabel’s, whose hapless fate
Full many a heart doth rue:
Her’s should have been the highest state,
For equals she had few.
Such beauties o’er her charming face,
Had bounteous nature spread;
Less lovely were the flowery race,
Within their fragrant bed.
Her breast, in which each virtue glow’d,
Now lies so cold and dead;
Her voice, which with soft music flow’d,
And every charm, is fled.
Ah! had but fortune’s smiles adorn’d
This fair, this tender flower;
Young Isabel had not been scorn’d,
Nor I have mourn’d this hour.
A haughty Nabob, rich and great,
Liv’d near her mother’s cot;
Who, wrapt in India’s pompous state,
Had love’s soft claims forgot.
Not so his son, a graceful youth,
Of manner most refin’d;
Replete with honor and with truth,
And stor’d with gifts his mind.
He Isabel beheld with joy,
And lov’d with faith sincere;
Unconscious of the sad alloy,
Too soon to interfere.
For when the Nabob heard it said,
(As village news expands)
That Edwin, by a rustic maid,
Was held in Cupid’s bands;
With fiercest rage his bosom glow’d,
He tore him from her arms;
No pity for his youth he show’d,
No pity for her charms.
To India then was Edwin sent,
In honor’s rank most high;
But sure harsh parent to repent,
The hour approacheth nigh.
For captive, in a dreary cell,
Oppress’d with grief and care;
Thy son an hapless victim fell,
Tho’ brave beyond compare.
That gentle youth on India’s plains,
His precious breath resign’d;
Consum’d by fever’s raging pains,
And by a wounded mind.
When tidings came to Isabel,
Of his disastrous fate,
In dreadful fainting fits she fell,
And piteous was her state.
For sorely did this maiden grieve,
And heart-felt tears she shed;
Till slow disease and grief confine
Fair Bella to her bed.
Her aged mother, full of fear,
Consults the doctor nigh;
She trusts his word her heart will cheer,
And stop the heavy sigh.
The doctor skill’d disease to trace,
Its varying forms to tell;
Anguish and death saw in the face
Of beateous Isabel.
But when she mark’d her mother’s grief,
She said, do not despair,
This worthy man will bring relief,
And mitigate your care.
For your dear sake I yet would stay,
To pay your tender love;
And my long-wish’d-for call delay,
To Edwin now above.
The doctor silent, shook his head,
No comfort could he give:
Which to the wretched mother said,
‘Tis past–she cannot live.
And true did this prognostic prove,
And true the mother’s fears;
She’s gone to join the blest above,
From this sad vale of tears.
But see–with solemn, silent tread,
Advance the funeral train:
The flowers they strew, the tears they shed,
Thy story shall explain.
And oft’ the village maids shall meet,
To visit thy lone tomb;
They’ll deck thy grave with flow’rs so sweet,
For there shall flowers bloom.
And oft’ shall they in rustic verse,
Thy piteous tale relate;
Thy love, thy constancy rehearse,
And mourn thy hapless fate.
Ah, Nabob! what avails thy wealth,
Of gems–thy glittering store?
For Edwin, could they purchase health,
To Bella, life restore.
Now childless shall you rue the day,
And childless mourn your pride
That Edwin was sent far away,
And this fair maiden died.
(Caroline Maxwell)
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Based on Topics: Love Poems, Man Poems, Life Poems, Mind Poems, Sadness Poems, Faces Poems, Joy & Excitement Poems, Youth Poems, Fairness Poems, Flowers Poems, Fear PoemsBased on Keywords: heart-felt, isabel, edwin, mitigate, bella, approacheth, nabob, consults, long-wish, prognostic, see-with