To Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart

MY cousin, I have never seen thee—yetFrom childhood's early years my dearest thoughtsHave been so full of thee, I almost seemTo know thee well. From thy high soul, my soulHas caught its inspiration. I have feltMy 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 rideAt will on passion's maddening storm of fire,My young heart, faint and weak with its excessOf voiceless adoration, has sunk downBefore thee, its deep pride, its strength, its life,All, all forgotten in its silent aweToward a bright being of the earth so high,And glorious, and grand.

Oh I have thoughtAs o'er thy bright and burning page my heartWrapt in wild flame, has poured its mightiest love,How like a demi-god thou art, thou proudAnd sceptred monarch of the realm of mind!The human soul, with all its mystic chordsOf joy and woe, and hope and holy love,Is thine own instrument, from which thy handAwakens tones whose echoes will be heardThrough all the coming years, far sounding o'erThe ocean of the future ages.

ThouArt a magician of strange power; thou canstDraw healing sweets from poisons; thou canst makeThe darkest, deadliest passions wear the huesOf beauty and religion; all things, glassedWithin thy fancy's mirror-wave, assumeThe holy tints of heaven. With wizard spellThou stirrest the deep fountains of my lifeUntil I worship thee, and feel myselfExalted by such worship. Thou dost standUpon thy own high pyramid of mind,As on some lofty mountain-height, and waveThy mighty wand, and myriads of brightAnd fearful shapes, all things of heaven and earth,Come thronging on the wild careering winds,The vassals of thy bidding.

Cousin, IHave deemed that, like the brave old Titan, thouHast stolen fire from heaven wherewith to warmThe 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 GodIs justice, love, and mercy.

Cousin, thouHast said thou lovest me, and in that loveMy bosom proud feels all the rapturous joyE'er dreamed of on the earth. We have not met,And I could pray that we might never meet,For stern reality hath cruel powerTo cheat bright fancy of her thousand spells.To thee I would be ever as a thingOf 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 soundOf 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 theeA kiss from my young spirit; let me beAs a soft, blessed tone of melodyTo stir with gentleness the passion-depthsOf thy great soul; and when on some lone eveI send, as now, my spirit to communeWith thine, oh give it one sweet, dewy flowerFrom out the rich rose-garden of thy soul,One little diamond from thy priceless mineOf blight and glorious thought, one gentle sighFrom thy deep spirit, mournful with the wildExcess of dreaming passion far too richTo find its proper guerdon in a cold,Unfeeling world like this.

Oh cousin mine,Thou art my deep idolatry. I've dreamedOft of the glory of our ancient raceWhich lives again in thee. I've deemed the pride,Which in the great Llewellyn dimly shone,In thee all perfected I've sat and musedOn thee with blissful tears, until my soulHas from thy fancy's glorious well-spring drawnVisions of love and immortality.In musings I have ofttimes stood with theeIn ancient Knebworth, and with thee have strayedThrough its time-honored shades, while thy rich tonesHave thrilled my spirit's lyre, and wakened thoughtsTo sleep no more for ever.

Cousin dear,This humble wreath that here I send to theeIs woven of my spirit's bleeding flowers.Oh do not scorn the chaplet, for 'tis fresh,And pure, and softly glowing with the heart'sFirst morning dews. My cousin, fare thee well.