Classic Poem

Which is the fairest of Shakespeare's girls—
The brightest, the dearest of all his train,
That shook to the breeze their dancing curls
In the sweetness and spring-tide of beauty's reign?
Shall I answer you? Portia, in Belmont's bower?
Or fair Imogen in her Warwick tower?
Dear Jessica, Rosalind, Isábel?
Nay, answer yourself; I cannot tell.

But which would you name for your wedded choice?
Pray, which would you marry? tell me that:
Cordelia true, with her gentle voice?
Sweet Anne Page, in her Stratford hat?
Fond Juliet, gazing at trembling stars
From balcony, casement, and lattice bars?
Would you rather be her Romeo,
Or somebody's else? I hardly know.

For I like the moonlight on Belmont's bowers,
And the Annies that wander by Avon-stream,
And the maiden of Warwick's cloud-capped towers,
And the Capulet gardens where lovers dream.
But which would I marry? Which would you?
First tell me the rainbow's loveliest hue.
Ah! life would be of Heaven a lease
With Viola, Celia, or Beatrice.

But answer me truly! Well, dearer than all,
Than Perdita, Hero, or Hermione,

Is lovely Miranda in Prospero's hall,
In bright sunny island far out in the sea:
Miranda the peerless, the sweetest, the best,
In magical island far out in the west,
Where waves break in beauty on sun-tinted strand—
If I am mistaken, then ask Ferdinand.

Which is the fairest of all who came
At the word of the conjurer, Walter Scott?
Princess and lady of titled name,
Lassie and maiden of lowly lot?
Edith Plantagenet, royal by birth?
Catherine Glover, the fair maid of Perth?
Brave Jennie Deans, with her eloquent prayer?
Eveline Beringer, Constance or Clare?

Which would I marry? Edith of Lorn?
Rose of Bradwardine, gentle and mild?
Brave Alice Bridgnorth, Puritan born?
Or bright Alice Lee, the Cavalier's child?
Rebecca, Rowena, or Julia the fair?
Edith Bellenden, with King Charles's chair?
Saxon or Norman or Jewess! Ah me!
Thrice happy to win any one of the three.

But is there no choice? Well, dearer to me
Than Flora McIvor of lineage high,
Than Bertha, who sailed over many a sea
To find her bold Hereward 'neath sunner sky;
Than Robert's Brenhilda of Normandy's soil,
Or the radiant daughters of bluff Magnus Troil—
Fair Brenna and Minna who dwelt by the sea,
There is one of the “Galaxy” dearer to me.

Ay, dearer than all who have passed in review,
Than heart-broken Amy or sweet Eveline,
Than hoyden Die Vernon, with eyes gray or blue,
Is true Ellen Donglas of bonnie Katrine;
And sunlight and moonlight in transport shall smile
For years, ay, forever, on fair Ellen's isle.
Ah, happy that island to bear her sweet name!
If I am mistaken, then ask Malcolm Graeme.

Which is the best of Chautauqua's girls
The sweetest, the loveliest daughter of all,
From the wavelet that plays over India's pearls
To the gate-way that arches South Framingham's hall?
Is it Ottawa, Kansas, by Marais des Cygnes?
Or Lakeside, Monona—pray which is the queen?
Waseca, Monteagle, De Funiak Lake?
Sweet visions of beauty—say, which would you take?

Do you tell me the answer is easy and clear?
(There's logic in all things, and should be in this.)
The fairest, the brightest, the sweetest is here—
There must be an island for absolute bliss.
You spoke of Miranda's and fair Ellen's—hark!
Did I hear some one mention the name “Island Park?”
An island enchanted, in loveliness set—
You may be mistaken—ask Doctor Gillet.