Poems (Griffith)/To Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart
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To Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart.
MY cousin, I have never seen thee—yet
From childhood's early years my dearest thoughts
Have been so full of thee, I almost seem
To know thee well. From thy high soul, my soul
Has caught its inspiration. I have felt
My spirit rise exulting with thine own,
To share the blessed sunbeam and the breeze.
But when, in thy proud majesty of strength,
Thou hast sprung upward to the skies to ride
At will on passion's maddening storm of fire,
My young heart, faint and weak with its excess
Of voiceless adoration, has sunk down
Before thee, its deep pride, its strength, its life,
All, all forgotten in its silent awe
Toward a bright being of the earth so high,
And glorious, and grand.
From childhood's early years my dearest thoughts
Have been so full of thee, I almost seem
To know thee well. From thy high soul, my soul
Has caught its inspiration. I have felt
My spirit rise exulting with thine own,
To share the blessed sunbeam and the breeze.
But when, in thy proud majesty of strength,
Thou hast sprung upward to the skies to ride
At will on passion's maddening storm of fire,
My young heart, faint and weak with its excess
Of voiceless adoration, has sunk down
Before thee, its deep pride, its strength, its life,
All, all forgotten in its silent awe
Toward a bright being of the earth so high,
And glorious, and grand.
Oh I have thought
As o'er thy bright and burning page my heart
Wrapt in wild flame, has poured its mightiest love,
How like a demi-god thou art, thou proud
And sceptred monarch of the realm of mind!
The human soul, with all its mystic chords
Of joy and woe, and hope and holy love,
Is thine own instrument, from which thy hand
Awakens tones whose echoes will be heard
Through all the coming years, far sounding o'er
The ocean of the future ages.
As o'er thy bright and burning page my heart
Wrapt in wild flame, has poured its mightiest love,
How like a demi-god thou art, thou proud
And sceptred monarch of the realm of mind!
The human soul, with all its mystic chords
Of joy and woe, and hope and holy love,
Is thine own instrument, from which thy hand
Awakens tones whose echoes will be heard
Through all the coming years, far sounding o'er
The ocean of the future ages.
Thou
Art a magician of strange power; thou canst
Draw healing sweets from poisons; thou canst make
The darkest, deadliest passions wear the hues
Of beauty and religion; all things, glassed
Within thy fancy's mirror-wave, assume
The holy tints of heaven. With wizard spell
Thou stirrest the deep fountains of my life
Until I worship thee, and feel myself
Exalted by such worship. Thou dost stand
Upon thy own high pyramid of mind,
As on some lofty mountain-height, and wave
Thy mighty wand, and myriads of bright
And fearful shapes, all things of heaven and earth,
Come thronging on the wild careering winds,
The vassals of thy bidding.
Art a magician of strange power; thou canst
Draw healing sweets from poisons; thou canst make
The darkest, deadliest passions wear the hues
Of beauty and religion; all things, glassed
Within thy fancy's mirror-wave, assume
The holy tints of heaven. With wizard spell
Thou stirrest the deep fountains of my life
Until I worship thee, and feel myself
Exalted by such worship. Thou dost stand
Upon thy own high pyramid of mind,
As on some lofty mountain-height, and wave
Thy mighty wand, and myriads of bright
And fearful shapes, all things of heaven and earth,
Come thronging on the wild careering winds,
The vassals of thy bidding.
Cousin, I
Have deemed that, like the brave old Titan, thou
Hast stolen fire from heaven wherewith to warm
The frozen world of thought, but thou wilt not,
Like him, be destined to the chain; the rock,
And the fierce vulture at the heart, for Jove,
The Tyrant, rules no more in heaven, and God
Is justice, love, and mercy.
Have deemed that, like the brave old Titan, thou
Hast stolen fire from heaven wherewith to warm
The frozen world of thought, but thou wilt not,
Like him, be destined to the chain; the rock,
And the fierce vulture at the heart, for Jove,
The Tyrant, rules no more in heaven, and God
Is justice, love, and mercy.
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
I send, as now, my spirit to commune
With thine, oh give it one sweet, dewy flower
From out the rich rose-garden of thy soul,
One little diamond from thy priceless mine
Of blight and glorious thought, one gentle sigh
From thy deep spirit, mournful with the wild
Excess of dreaming passion far too rich
To find its proper guerdon in a cold,
Unfeeling world like this.
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
I send, as now, my spirit to commune
With thine, oh give it one sweet, dewy flower
From out the rich rose-garden of thy soul,
One little diamond from thy priceless mine
Of blight and glorious thought, one gentle sigh
From thy deep spirit, mournful with the wild
Excess of dreaming passion far too rich
To find its proper guerdon in a cold,
Unfeeling world like this.
Oh cousin mine,
Thou art my deep idolatry. I've dreamed
Oft of the glory of our ancient race
Which lives again in thee. I've deemed the pride,
Which in the great Llewellyn dimly shone,
In thee all perfected I've sat and mused
On thee with blissful tears, until my soul
Has from thy fancy's glorious well-spring drawn
Visions of love and immortality.
In musings I have ofttimes stood with thee
In ancient Knebworth, and with thee have strayed
Through its time-honored shades, while thy rich tones
Have thrilled my spirit's lyre, and wakened thoughts
To sleep no more for ever.
Thou art my deep idolatry. I've dreamed
Oft of the glory of our ancient race
Which lives again in thee. I've deemed the pride,
Which in the great Llewellyn dimly shone,
In thee all perfected I've sat and mused
On thee with blissful tears, until my soul
Has from thy fancy's glorious well-spring drawn
Visions of love and immortality.
In musings I have ofttimes stood with thee
In ancient Knebworth, and with thee have strayed
Through its time-honored shades, while thy rich tones
Have thrilled my spirit's lyre, and wakened thoughts
To sleep no more for ever.
Cousin dear,
This humble wreath that here I send to thee
Is woven of my spirit's bleeding flowers.
Oh do not scorn the chaplet, for 'tis fresh,
And pure, and softly glowing with the heart's
First morning dews. My cousin, fare thee well.
This humble wreath that here I send to thee
Is woven of my spirit's bleeding flowers.
Oh do not scorn the chaplet, for 'tis fresh,
And pure, and softly glowing with the heart's
First morning dews. My cousin, fare thee well.