She has known such pomp, she careth not, For any humble sight; Flowers bending o'er the brook's green edge, To her give no delight; She tends her costly eastern bird With gold upon its wing; But her wild roses bloom for me, For me her wild birds sing. She tires of home, and fain would see The brightest clime of earth, And so she sails for summer lands With friends to share her mirth; She waves her jewelled hand to me The opal spray-clouds fly; She leaves me with the fading shore-- Do I envy her? not I. She will see the sailor's hardened palms Curbing the toiling sails, She will faint beneath the tropic calms And face the angry gales. She will labor for her happiness While I've no need to speak, But on a lotus leaf I float, Unto the land they seek. There, like a dream from out the wave, I see a city rise, I stand entranced, as by a spell, Upon the Bridge of Sighs. The low and measured dip of oars Falls softly on my ear Blent with the tender evening song, Of some swart gondolier. And down from marble terraces Veiled ladies slowly pass, And, entering antique barges, Glide down the streets of glass; And eyes filled with the dew and fire Of their own midnight sky, Gleam full on me, as silently The gondolas float by. The sunset burns, and turns the wave To an enchanted stream, And far up on the shadowy steeps The white walled convents gleam, The music of their bells float out-- The sweet wind bears it by, Adown the warm and sunny slopes, Where purple vineyards lie. And I stand in old cathedrals, By tombs of buried kings, White angels bend above them-- Mute guard with folded wings. Far down the aisle the organ peals, The priests are knelt in prayer And memories flood its ancient walls, As the music fills the air. I may not see that blessed land, But she roams o'er the sod The Lord's pure eyes have hallowed, Where once His feet have trod. Yet He in mercy has drawn near, He has me comforted-- So near He seemed I almost felt His hand upon my head. And I with slow and reverent steps Through ancient cities roam, Treading o'er crumbling columns, The dust of spire and dome; The tall and shattered arches Their flickering shadows cast, Like bent and hoary spectres, Low murmuring of the past. And Isabelle toils o'er the Alps, Through fields of ice and snow, To see the lofty glaciers Flash in the sun's red glow. I feel no cold, and yet on high Their shining spires I see. Why should I envy Isabelle? Why should she pity me? Why should I envy Isabelle When thus so easily, Upon a tropic flower's perfume I float across the sea? GOOD-BY. Again I see that May moon shine, Dost thou remember, soul of mine? I held your hand in mine, you know, And as I bent to whisper low, A tender light was in your eye, "Sweetheart, good-by, sweetheart, good-by."