To Miss Julia Dean

OH, thou art wondrous fair! I did not dreamThus to behold the fancy of the great,Immortal poet's brain made palpableTo mortal vision. Mighty Shakspeare's self,Who from his mind of myriad glories wroughtThis creature of strange beauty, and of deepStrong love, might well be proud to see thee takeHer form, and to the bright ideal giveLife, 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 armsAre thrown out wildly in a frantic prayerFor his return! And when upon the earth,In passion's stormiest mood, thy form is flungIn utter, hopeless, crushing agony,The deep and mute upheavings of thy strongAnd frenzied soul wring drops of voiceless griefFrom hearts unused to tears.

The mute appealOf those blue orbs, the marble fixednessOf 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 lieUpon the broken altar of the heart;Thy music-cadences when in the strange,Deep poetry of passion, they are breathedFrom thy young lips—all touch the soul with powerMysterious and resistless.

Lady bright,And beautiful, to thee belongs a highAnd glorious mission. The great heritageOf 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 liveFor ever in our glowing souls as thouDost image them.

O lady clear, the pureAnd gentle beauty of thy sweet young faceHas 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 wealthOf fleecy, golden hair; thy liquid eyes,Through which thy thoughts glow ever, as the starsShine through the soft, blue glories of the sky;The eloquent rich blood that proudly mountsUp to thy throbbing temples, and impartsIts tinge to "the white wonder" of thy brow;Thy ripe red lips, where honeyed sweetness seemsTo hang; the chiselled outline of thy lightAnd undulating form, and, most of all,The spirit of a genius that beams outFrom every lineament, like prisoned flameShining 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 liveImmortally within my soul in heaven,A portion of that heaven's own purityAnd angel beauty.

Lovely lady, thouWilt 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 takeWith thee the blessings of a heart, that thouHast ofttimes thrilled to ecstasy and tears.