TO MISS MARTHA GRIFFITH.

———

BY G. D. P.

———

Beautiful girl, I have wandered far,

Toward the rising sun and the evening star,

I have roamed ’mid the Northern wastes of snow,

And strayed where the soft magnolias blow,

But I never gazed on a face as bright

As thine, sweet spirit of young delight.

Beautiful girl, thou art bright and fair

As an angel-shape in the moonlight air,

No shadow rests on thy brow of snow

Save that of thy tresses drooping low,

Love’s own dear light is wandering oft

O’er thy gentle lip of carmine soft,

Thy lovely cheek, where the rich, red glow

Of the warm blood melts through the virgin snow,

Is sweetly blending in one rich dye

The woven beauties of earth and sky;

Truth, holy truth in its freshness dwells

Deep, deep in thy dark eyes’ shaded wells,

And fancies wild from their clear depths gleam,

Like shadows of stars from a trembling stream,

And thy thoughts are a dream of Eden’s bowers,

And thy words are garlands of flowers, bright flowers.

Beautiful girl, I have seen thee move

A floating creature of joy and love,

As light as a mist on the sunrise gale,

Or the buoyant sway of a bridal veil,

Till I almost looked to see thee rise

Like a soaring thought to the free blue skies,

Or melt away in the thin blue air,

Like a vision of fancy painted there.

Thy low sweet voice, as it thrills around,

Seems less a sound than a dream of sound;

Softly and wildly its clear notes swell

Like the spirit-tones of a silver bell,

And the lips whence the fairy music flows

Is to fancy’s eye like a speaking rose.

Beautiful, beautiful girl, thou art

A vision of joy to the throbbing heart,

A star sent down from a world of bliss

And all undimmed by the shades of this;

A rainbow pictured by love’s own sun

On the clouds of being, beautiful one.

Beautiful girl, ’tis a weary year

Since thy sweet voice fell on my ravished ear.

’Tis a long, long year of light and gloom

Since I gazed on thy young cheek’s lovely bloom—

Yet thy gentle tones of music still

Through the holiest depths of memory thrill

Like tones of a fount, or breeze, or bird,

In the long gone years of childhood heard.

And oft in my dark and lonely moods,

When a demon-wing o’er my spirit broods,

Thine image seems on my soul to break

Like the sweet young moon o’er a gloomy lake,

Filling its depths as the shadows flee,

With beauty and love and melody.

Beautiful girl, thou art far away,

And I know not where thy steps now stray;

But oh! ’tis sweet, it is very sweet,

In the fairy realms of dreams to greet

Thy cheek of roses, thy brow of pearl,

And thy voice of music, beautiful girl.