Poems (Griffith)/To Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart
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 seemTo 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.