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.
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.
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.
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.
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.