So the little blind elf with his feathered shaft
  Did more than the sword could do,
For he conquered and took with his magical craft
  Her heart and her castle, too.

[Illustration:  WESSELENYI]

ISABEL

    Fare-thee-well: 
  On my soul the toll of bell
Trembles.  Thou art calmly sleeping
While my weary heart is weeping: 
  I cannot listen to thy knell: 
    Fare-thee-well.

    Sleep and rest: 
  Sorrow shall not pain thy breast,
Pangs and pains that pierce the mortal
Cannot enter at the portal
  Of the Mansion of the Blest: 
    Sleep and rest.

    Slumber sweet,
  Heart that nevermore will beat
At the footsteps of thy lover;
All thy cares and fears are over. 
  In thy silent winding-sheet
    Slumber sweet.

    Fare-thee-well: 
  In the garden and the dell
Where thou lov’dst to stroll and meet me,
Nevermore thy kiss shall greet me,
  Nevermore, O Isabel! 
    Fare-thee-well.

    We shall meet—­
  Where the wings of angels beat: 
When my toils and cares are over,
Thou shalt greet again thy lover—­
  Robed and crowned at Jesus’ feet
    We shall meet.

    Watch and wait
  At the narrow, golden gate;
Watch my coming,—­wait my greeting,
For my years are few and fleeting
  And my love shall not abate: 
    Watch and wait.

    So farewell,
  O my darling Isabel;
Till we meet in the supernal
Mansion and with love eternal
  In the golden city dwell,
    Fare-thee-well.

BYRON AND THE ANGEL

Poet:

“Why this fever—­why this sighing?—­
Why this restless longing—­dying
For—­a something—­dreamy something,
Undefined, and yet defying
All the pride and power of manhood?

“O these years of sin and sorrow! 
Smiling while the iron harrow
Of a keen and biting longing
Tears and quivers in the marrow
Of my being every moment—­
Of my very inmost being.

“What to me the mad ambition
For men’s praise and proud position—­
Struggling, fighting to the summit
Of its vain and earthly mission,
To lie down on bed of ashes—­
Bed of barren, bitter ashes?

“Cure this fever?  I have tried it;
Smothered, drenched it and defied it
With a will of brass and iron;
Every smile and look denied it;
Yet it heeded not denying,
And it mocks at my defying
While my very soul is dying.

“Is there balm in Gilead?—­tell me! 
Nay—­no balm to soothe and quell me? 
Must I tremble in this fever? 
Death, O lift thy hand and fell me;
Let me sink to rest forever
Where this burning cometh never.

“Sometimes when this restless madness
Softens down to mellow sadness,
I look back on sun-lit valleys
Where my boyish heart of gladness
Nestled without pain or longing—­
Nestled softly in a vision
Full of love and hope’s fruition,
Lulled by morning songs of spring-time.