Frances Anne Kemble

Oft let me wander hand in hand with Thought,
In woodland paths, and lone sequester'd shades,
What time the sunny banks and mossy glades,
With dewy wreaths of early violets wrought,
Into the air their fragrant incense fling,
To greet the triumph of the youthful Spring.
Lo, where she comes! 'scaped from the icy lair
Of hoary Winter; wanton, free, and fair!
Now smile the heavens again upon the earth,
Bright hill, and bosky dell, resound with mirth,
And voices, full of laughter and wild glee,
Shout through the air pregnant with harmony;
And wake poor sobbing Echo, who replies
With sleepy voice, that softly, slowly dies.

'Twas but a dream! and oh! what are they all,
    All the fond visions Hope's bright finger traces,
    All the fond visions Time's dark wing effaces,
But very dreams! but morning buds, that fall
    Withered and blighted, long before the night:
    Strewing the paths they should have made more bright,
With mournful wreaths, whose light hath past away,
    That can return to life and beauty never,
And yet, of whom it was but yesterday,
    We deemed they'd bloom as fresh and fair for ever.
Oh then, when hopes, that to thy heart are dearest,
    Over the future shed their sunniest beam,
When round thy path their bright wings hover nearest,
    Trust not too fondly! - for 'tis but a dream!

There's not a fibre in my trembling frame
That does not vibrate when thy step draws near,
There's not a pulse that throbs not when I hear
Thy voice, thy breathing, nay, thy very name.
When thou art with me, every sense seems dull,
And all I am, or know, or feel, is thee;
My soul grows faint, my veins run liquid flame,
And my bewildered spirit seems to swim
In eddying whirls of passion, dizzily.
When thou art gone, there creeps into my heart
A cold and bitter consciousness of pain:
The light, the warmth of life, with thee depart,
And I sit dreaming o'er and o'er again
Thy greeting clasp, thy parting look, and tone;
And suddenly I wake - and am alone.

Thou poisonous laurel leaf, that in the soil
    Of life, which I am doomed to till full sore,
Spring'st like a noisome weed!    I do not toil
    For thee, and yet thou still com'st dark'ning o'er
        My plot of earth with thy unwelcome shade.
Thou nightshade of the soul, beneath whose boughs
    All fair and gentle buds hang withering!
Why hast thou wreathed thyself around my brows,
    Casting from thence the blossoms of my spring,
        Breathing on youth's sweet roses till they fade?
Alas! thou art an evil weed of woe,
    Watered with tears and watched with sleepless care,
    Seldom doth envy thy green glories spare;
And yet men covet thee - ah, wherefore do they so!

I hear a voice low in the sunset woods;
    Listen, it says: "Decay, decay, decay!"
I hear it in the murmuring of the floods,
    And the wind sighs it as it flies away.
Autumn is come; seest thou not in the skies,
The stormy light of his fierce lurid eyes?
Autumn is come; his brazen feet have trod,
Withering and scorching, o'er the mossy sod.
The fainting year sees her fresh flowery wreath
Shrivel in his hot grasp; his burning breath
Dries the sweet water-springs that in the shade
Wandering along, delicious music made.
A flood of glory hangs upon the world,
Summer's bright wings shining ere they are furled.

Suggested by Sir Thomas Lawrence observing that we never dream of ourselves younger than we are.

Not in our dreams, not even in our dreams,
May we return to that sweet land of youth,
That home of hope, of innocence, and truth,
Which as we farther roam but fairer seems.
In that dim shadowy world, where the soul strays
When she has laid her mortal charge to rest,
We oft behold far future hours and days,
But ne'er live o'er the past, the happiest,
How oft will fancy's wild imaginings
Bear us in sleep to times and worlds unseen!
But ah! not e'en unfettered fancy's wings
Can lead us back to aught that we have been,
Or waft us to that smiling, sunny shore,
Which e'en in slumber we may tread no more.

Written at four o'clock in the morning, after a ball.

Oh, modest maiden morn! why dost thou blush,
    Who thus betimes art walking in the sky?
'Tis I, whose cheek bears pleasure's sleepless flush,
    Who shame to meet thy gray, cloud-lidded eye,
Shadowy, yet clear: from the bright eastern door,
    Where the sun's shafts lie bound with thongs of fire,
Along the heaven's amber-paved floor,
    The glad hours move, hymning their early choir.
O, fair and fragrant morn! upon my brow
    Press thy fresh lips, shake from thy dropping hair
    Cold showers of balmy dew on me, and ere
Day's chariot-wheels upon th' horizon glow,
Wrap me within thy sober cloak of gray,
And bear me to thy twilight bowers away.

Oh weary, weary world! how full thou art
    Of sin, of sorrow, and all evil things!
In thy fierce turmoil, where shall the sad heart,
    Released from pain, fold its unrested wings?
Peace hath no dwelling here, but evermore
Loud discord, strife, and envy, fill the earth
With fearful riot, whilst unhallowed mirth
Shrieks frantic laughter forth, leading along,
Whirling in dizzy trance the eager throng,
Who bear aloft the overflowing cup,
With tears, forbidden joys, and blood filled up,
Quaffing long draughts of death; in lawless might,
Drunk with soft harmonies, and dazzling light,
So rush they down to the eternal night.

Cover me with your everlasting arms,
    Ye guardian giants of this solitude!
    From the ill-sight of men, and from the rude,
Tumultuous din of yon wide world's alarms!
Oh, knit your mighty limbs around, above,
    And close me in for ever! let me dwell
    With the wood spirits, in the darkest cell
That ever with your verdant locks ye wove.
    The air is full of countless voices, joined
    In one eternal hymn; the whispering wind,
    The shuddering leaves, the hidden water-springs,
    The work-song of the bees, whose honeyed wings
    Hang in the golden tresses of the lime,
    Or buried lie in purple beds of thyme.

Though thou return unto the former things,
Fields, woods, and gardens, where thy feet have strayed
In other days, and not a bough, branch, blade
Of tree, or meadow, but the same appears
As when thou lovedst them in former years,
They shall not seem the same; the spirit brings
Change from the inward, though the outward be
E'en as it was, when thou didst weep to see
It last, and spak'st that prophecy of pain,
"Farewell!    I shall not look on ye again!"
And so thou never didst - no, though e'en now
    Thine eyes behold all they so loved of yore,
    The Thou that did behold them then, no more
Lives in this world, it is another Thou.

Mother, mother! my heart is wild,
    Hold me upon your bosom dear,
Do not frown on your own poor child,
    Death is darkly drawing near.

Mother, mother! the bitter shame
    Eats into my very soul;
And longing love, like a wrapping flame,
    Burns me away without control.

Mother, mother! upon my brow
    The clammy death-sweats coldly rise;
How dim and strange your features grow
    Through the hot mist that veils my eyes!

Mother, mother! sing me the song
    They sing on sunny August eves,
The rustling barley-fields along,
    Binding up the ripe, red sheaves.

Mother, mother!    I do not hear
    Your voice - but his, - oh, guard me well!
His breathing makes me faint with fear,
    His clasping arms are round me still...

Oh let it be where the waters are meeting,
    In one crystal sheet, like the summer's sky bright!
Oh let it be where the sun, when retreating,
    May throw the last glance of his vanishing light.
Lay me there! lay me there! and upon my lone pillow
    Let the emerald moss in soft starry wreaths swell;
Be my dirge the faint sob of the murmuring billow,
    And the burthen it sings to me, nought but "farewell!"

Oh let it be where soft slumber enticing,
    The cypress and myrtle have mingled their shade:
Oh let it be where the moon at her rising,
    May throw the first night-glance that silvers the glade.
Lay me there! lay me there! and upon the green willow
    Hang the harp that has cheered the lone minstrel so well,
That the soft breath of heaven, as it sighs ...

'Twas a fit hour for parting,
    For athwart the leaden sky
The heavy clouds came gathering
    And sailing gloomily:
The earth was drunk with heaven's tears,
    And each moaning autumn breeze
Shook the burthen of its weeping
    Off the overladen trees.
The waterfall rushed swollen down,
    In the gloaming, still and gray;
With a foam-wreath on the angry brow
    Of each wave that flashed away.
My tears were mingling with the rain,
    That fell so cold and fast,
And my spirit felt thy low deep sigh
    Through the wild and roaring blast.
The beauty of the summer woods
    Lay rustling round our feet,
And all fair things had passed away -
    'Twas an hour for parting meet.

I am alone - oh be thou near to me,
Great God! from whom the meanest are not far.
Not in presumption of the daring spirit,
Striving to find the secrets of itself,
Make I my weeping prayer; in the deep want
Of utter loneliness, my God! I seek thee;
If the worm may creep up to thy fellowship,
Or dust, instinct with yearning, rise towards thee.
I have no fellow, Father! of my kind;
None that be kindred, none companion to me,
And the vast love, and harmony, and brotherhood,
Of the dumb creatures thou hast made below me,
Vexes my soul with its own bitter lot.
Around me grow the trees, each by the other;
Innumerable leaves, each like the other,
Whisper and breathe, and live and move together.
Around me spring the flowers; each rosy cup
Hath sisters, leaning the...

Rest, warrior, rest! thine hour is past, -
Thy longest war-whoop, and thy last,
Still rings upon the rushing blast,
    That o'er thy grave sweeps drearily.

Rest, warrior, rest! thy haughty brow,
Beneath the hand of death bends low,
Thy fiery glance is quenched now,
    In the cold grave's obscurity.

Rest, warrior, rest! thy rising sun
Is set in blood, thy day is done;
Like lightning flash thy race is run,
    And thou art sleeping peacefully.

Rest, warrior, rest! thy foot no more
The boundless forest shall explore,
Or trackless cross the sandy shore,
    Or chase the red deer rapidly.

Rest, warrior, rest! thy light canoe,
Like thy choice arrow, swift and true,
Shall part no more the waters blue,
    That sparkle round it...

    Death and I,
    On a hill so high,
Stood side by side:
    And we saw below,
    Running to and fro,
All things that be in the world so wide.

    Ten thousand cries
    From the gulf did rise,
With a wild discordant sound;
    Laughter and wailing,
    Prayer and railing,
As the ball spun round and round.

    And over all
    Hung a floating pall
Of dark and gory veils:
    'Tis the blood of years,
    And the sighs and tears,
Which this noisome marsh exhales.

    All this did seem
    Like a fearful dream,
Till Death cried with a joyful cry:
    "Look down! look down!
    It is all mine own,
Here comes life's pageant by!"

Like to a masque in ancient revelries,
With mingling sound of tho...

Night comes upon the earth; and fearfully
Arise the mighty winds, and sweep along
In the full chorus of their midnight song.
The waste of heavy clouds, that veil the sky,
Roll like a murky scroll before them driven,
And show faint glimpses of a darker heaven.
No ray is there of moon, or pale-eyed star,
Darkness is on the universe; save where
The western sky lies glimmering, faint and far,
With day's red embers dimly glowing there.
Hark! how the wind comes gathering in its course,
And sweeping onward, with resistless force,
Howls through the silent space of starless skies,
And on the breast of the swol'n ocean dies.
Oh, though art terrible, thou viewless power!
That rid'st destroying at the midnight hour!
We hear thy mighty pinion, but the eye
Knows nothin...

Are they indeed the bitterest tears we shed,
Those we let fall over the silent dead?
Can our thoughts image forth no darker doom,
Than that which wraps us in the peaceful tomb?
Whom have ye laid beneath that mossy grave,
Round which the slender, sunny, grass-blades wave?
Who are ye calling back to tread again
This weary walk of life? towards whom, in vain,
Are your fond eyes and yearning hearts upraised;
The young, the loved, the honoured, and the praised?
Come hither; - look upon the faded cheek
Of that still woman, who with eyelids meek
Veils her most mournful eyes; - upon her brow
Sometimes the sensitive blood will faintly glow,
When reckless hands her heart-wounds roughly tear,
But patience oftener sits palely there.
Beauty has left her - hope and joy have...