And my soul was filled with sorrow
For my lost and lonely bride;
I had gained her, but to lose her,
Isodore, my joy and pride.
Ah! I felt so sorely wounded,
I should see her nevermore,
For pale death had swiftly borne her
To that misty, silent shore.
In her bridal robe we laid her
Clasped her gems o’er filmy lace
With her golden tresses streaming
Round about her saintly face.
So my thoughts went ever trending
To my darling’s lonely grave,
While the firelight threw its shadows
And the tears my cheeks did lave.
Sudden, came a thrill of terror—
As a long despairing moan
Smote my ear, from out the casement,
Where the elder tree had grown.
Fearful, oped I wide the window,
Where, with lantern gleaming red,
Stood my dearest Isodora
Or her spirit from the dead.
Then she spoke in voice quite human,
“’Tis your own, your Isodore;”
Quickly I unbarred the portal
As she prone sank to the floor.
’Twas no vision; she was mortal
And her tale she slowly told;
How the wicked sexton robbed her,
As she lay in coffin cold.
He had hacked her slender fingers
To secure the rings so rare;
She, from cataleptic slumber
Woke, and saw his lantern there.
Then the sexton ghastly gazing,
Dropped his booty there and fled,
Little thinking, he, in robbing,
Gave me back my precious dead.