Poems (Griffith)/To Miss Julia Dean
To Miss Julia Dean,
ON SEEING HER AS JULIET.
OH, thou art wondrous fair! I did not dream
Thus to behold the fancy of the great,
Immortal poet's brain made palpable
To mortal vision. Mighty Shakspeare's self,
Who from his mind of myriad glories wrought
This creature of strange beauty, and of deep
Strong love, might well be proud to see thee take
Her form, and to the bright ideal give
Life, grace, and beauty brighter than her own.
Oh who would not weep gushing tears with thee,
Thou lovely being with a heart of flame,
When in the maddening burst of thy young grief,
Thy own dear Romeo from thee torn, thy arms
Are thrown out wildly in a frantic prayer
For his return! And when upon the earth,
In passion's stormiest mood, thy form is flung
In utter, hopeless, crushing agony,
The deep and mute upheavings of thy strong
And frenzied soul wring drops of voiceless grief
From hearts unused to tears.
Thus to behold the fancy of the great,
Immortal poet's brain made palpable
To mortal vision. Mighty Shakspeare's self,
Who from his mind of myriad glories wrought
This creature of strange beauty, and of deep
Strong love, might well be proud to see thee take
Her form, and to the bright ideal give
Life, grace, and beauty brighter than her own.
Oh who would not weep gushing tears with thee,
Thou lovely being with a heart of flame,
When in the maddening burst of thy young grief,
Thy own dear Romeo from thee torn, thy arms
Are thrown out wildly in a frantic prayer
For his return! And when upon the earth,
In passion's stormiest mood, thy form is flung
In utter, hopeless, crushing agony,
The deep and mute upheavings of thy strong
And frenzied soul wring drops of voiceless grief
From hearts unused to tears.
The mute appeal
Of those blue orbs, the marble fixedness
Of those sweet features in the trance of grief,
When thou art left by all thy heart holds dear;
Thy face so radiant in its loveliness,
Yet shadowed by the griefs that darkly lie
Upon the broken altar of the heart;
Thy music-cadences when in the strange,
Deep poetry of passion, they are breathed
From thy young lips—all touch the soul with power
Mysterious and resistless.
Of those blue orbs, the marble fixedness
Of those sweet features in the trance of grief,
When thou art left by all thy heart holds dear;
Thy face so radiant in its loveliness,
Yet shadowed by the griefs that darkly lie
Upon the broken altar of the heart;
Thy music-cadences when in the strange,
Deep poetry of passion, they are breathed
From thy young lips—all touch the soul with power
Mysterious and resistless.
Lady bright,
And beautiful, to thee belongs a high
And glorious mission. The great heritage
Of genius is thine own-—the boon of Heaven.
To the wild, airy things of poetry,
Its spirit-visions, its ethereal dreams,
Its mystic, fairy-like imaginings,
Thou givest beauty and vitality,
And bidd'st them move, and speak, and smile, and weep,
Like beings of our earth, and they will live
For ever in our glowing souls as thou
Dost image them.
And beautiful, to thee belongs a high
And glorious mission. The great heritage
Of genius is thine own-—the boon of Heaven.
To the wild, airy things of poetry,
Its spirit-visions, its ethereal dreams,
Its mystic, fairy-like imaginings,
Thou givest beauty and vitality,
And bidd'st them move, and speak, and smile, and weep,
Like beings of our earth, and they will live
For ever in our glowing souls as thou
Dost image them.
O lady clear, the pure
And gentle beauty of thy sweet young face
Has wakened thoughts and feelings in my soul,
That will not, cannot perish but with life.
Thy pure white brow, serene and beautiful,
And calm as infant sleep; thy floating wealth
Of fleecy, golden hair; thy liquid eyes,
Through which thy thoughts glow ever, as the stars
Shine through the soft, blue glories of the sky;
The eloquent rich blood that proudly mounts
Up to thy throbbing temples, and imparts
Its tinge to "the white wonder" of thy brow;
Thy ripe red lips, where honeyed sweetness seems
To hang; the chiselled outline of thy light
And undulating form, and, most of all,
The spirit of a genius that beams out
From every lineament, like prisoned flame
Shining through some bright alabaster vase—
These, these are deeply imaged in my heart,
A picture holy, beautiful and dear,
That will not pass away with earth, but live
Immortally within my soul in heaven,
A portion of that heaven's own purity
And angel beauty.
And gentle beauty of thy sweet young face
Has wakened thoughts and feelings in my soul,
That will not, cannot perish but with life.
Thy pure white brow, serene and beautiful,
And calm as infant sleep; thy floating wealth
Of fleecy, golden hair; thy liquid eyes,
Through which thy thoughts glow ever, as the stars
Shine through the soft, blue glories of the sky;
The eloquent rich blood that proudly mounts
Up to thy throbbing temples, and imparts
Its tinge to "the white wonder" of thy brow;
Thy ripe red lips, where honeyed sweetness seems
To hang; the chiselled outline of thy light
And undulating form, and, most of all,
The spirit of a genius that beams out
From every lineament, like prisoned flame
Shining through some bright alabaster vase—
These, these are deeply imaged in my heart,
A picture holy, beautiful and dear,
That will not pass away with earth, but live
Immortally within my soul in heaven,
A portion of that heaven's own purity
And angel beauty.
Lovely lady, thou
Wilt leave us soon perchance for distant climes,
To wake the loud applause of stranger lips,
And win a deathless garland for thy brow,
And I may see thee never more. Oh take
With thee the blessings of a heart, that thou
Hast ofttimes thrilled to ecstasy and tears.
Wilt leave us soon perchance for distant climes,
To wake the loud applause of stranger lips,
And win a deathless garland for thy brow,
And I may see thee never more. Oh take
With thee the blessings of a heart, that thou
Hast ofttimes thrilled to ecstasy and tears.