TO SIR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON.
43
Cousin, thou
Hast said thou lovest me, and in that love
My bosom proud feels all the rapturous joy
E'er dreamed of on the earth. We have not met,
And I could pray that we might never meet,
For stern reality hath cruel power
To cheat bright fancy of her thousand spells.
To thee I would be ever as a thing
Of youth and love. which, though from thee afar,
Is still a part of thee. Oh let the light,
The love-light of these tearful eyes of mine,
Shine on thee in the beam of some pure star;
Let my low voice steal o'er thee in the sound
Of melancholy winds through midnight rains;
Let the soft, dewy pinions of the breeze,
As, laden with the perfume of the flowers,
It comes to fan thy forehead, bear to thee
A kiss from my young spirit; let me be
As a soft, blessed tone of melody
To stir with gentleness the passion-depths
Of thy great soul; and when on some lone eve
Hast said thou lovest me, and in that love
My bosom proud feels all the rapturous joy
E'er dreamed of on the earth. We have not met,
And I could pray that we might never meet,
For stern reality hath cruel power
To cheat bright fancy of her thousand spells.
To thee I would be ever as a thing
Of youth and love. which, though from thee afar,
Is still a part of thee. Oh let the light,
The love-light of these tearful eyes of mine,
Shine on thee in the beam of some pure star;
Let my low voice steal o'er thee in the sound
Of melancholy winds through midnight rains;
Let the soft, dewy pinions of the breeze,
As, laden with the perfume of the flowers,
It comes to fan thy forehead, bear to thee
A kiss from my young spirit; let me be
As a soft, blessed tone of melody
To stir with gentleness the passion-depths
Of thy great soul; and when on some lone eve
