Farewell, sweet Isabella!—a wife at eight, a widow at twelve, and dead at twenty-two,—your life was indeed short, and, though not without happy days, sorrow blended largely with its joy!
Poor little Isabella, who had left France so brilliantly, returned a sad child-widow, and all that remained to her of her former splendor was a silver drink-cup and a few saucers. As Shakspeare says:
“My queen to France, from whence set forth in pomp,
She came adorned hither like sweet May,
Sent back like Hallowmas or shortest day.”