Poems by Fanny Kemble Part 2

A SPIRIT'S VOICE.

It is the dawn! the rosy day awakes; From her bright hair pale showers of dew she shakes, And through the heavens her early pathway takes; Why art thou sleeping?

It is the noon! the sun looks laughing down On hamlet still, on busy sh.o.r.e, and town, On forest glade, and deep dark waters lone; Why art thou sleeping?

It is the sunset! daylight's crimson veil Floats o'er the mountain tops, while twilight pale Calls up her vaporous shrouds from every vale; Why art thou sleeping?

It is the night! o'er the moon's livid brow, Like shadowy locks, the clouds their darkness throw, All evil spirits wake to wander now; Why art thou sleeping?

TO THE DEAD.

On the lone waters' sh.o.r.e Wander I yet; Brooding those moments o'er I should forget.

'Till the broad foaming surge Warns me to fly, While despair's whispers urge To stay and die.

When the night's solemn watch Falls on the seas, 'Tis thy voice that I catch In the low breeze; When the moon sheds her light On things below, Beams not her ray so bright, Like thy young brow?

Spirit immortal! say, When wilt thou come, To marshal me the way To my long home?

SONG.

I sing the yellow leaf, That rustling strews The wintry path, where grief Delights to muse, Spring's early violet, that sweetly opes Its fragrant leaves to the young morning's kiss, Type of our youth's fond dreams, and cherished hopes, Will soon be this: A sere and yellow leaf, That rustling strews The wintry path, where grief Delights to muse.

The summer's rose, in whose rich hues we read Pleasure's gay bloom, and love's enchanting bliss, And glory's laurel, waving o'er the dead, Will soon be this: A sere and yellow leaf, That rustling strews The wintry path, where grief Delights to muse.

TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.

Here's a health to thee, Bard of Erin!

To the goblet's brim we will fill; For all that to life is endearing, Thy strains have made dearer still!

Wherever fond woman's eyes eclipse The midnight moon's soft ray; Whenever around dear woman's lips, The smiles of affection play:

We will drink to thee, Bard of Erin!

To the goblet's brim we will fill, For all that to life is endearing, Thy strains have made dearer still!

Wherever the warrior's sword is bound With the laurel of victory, Wherever the patriot's brow is crowned With the halo of liberty:

We will drink to thee, Bard of Erin!

To the goblet's brim we will fill; For all that to life is endearing Thy strains have made dearer still!

Wherever the voice of mirth hath rung, On the listening ear of night, Wherever the soul of wit hath flung Its flashes of vivid light:

We will drink to thee, Bard of Erin!

To the goblet's brim we will fill; For all that to life is endearing, In thy strains is dearer still.

A WISH.

Oh! that I were a fairy sprite, to wander In forest paths, o'erarched with oak and beech; Where the sun's yellow light, in slanting rays, Sleeps on the dewy moss: what time the breath Of early morn stirs the white hawthorn boughs, And fills the air with showers of snowy blossoms.

Or lie at sunset 'mid the purple heather, Listening the silver music that rings out From the pale mountain bells, swayed by the wind.

Or sit in rocky clefts above the sea, While one by one the evening stars shine forth Among the gathering clouds, that strew the heavens Like floating purple wreaths of mournful nightshade!

THE MINSTREL'S GRAVE.

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 o'er my pillow, From its strings, now forsaken, may sound one farewell.

TO ---

When we first met, dark wintry skies were glooming, And the wild winds sang requiem to the year; But thou, in all thy beauty's pride wert blooming, And my young heart knew hope without a fear.

When we last parted, summer suns were smiling, And the bright earth her flowery vesture wore; But thou hadst lost the power of beguiling, For my wrecked, wearied heart, could hope no more.

ON A FORGET-ME-NOT, Brought from Switzerland.

Flower of the mountain! by the wanderer's hand Robbed of thy beauty's short-lived sunny day; Didst thou but blow to gem the stranger's way, And bloom, to wither in the stranger's land?

Hueless and scentless as thou art, How much that stirs the memory, How much, much more, that thrills the heart, Thou faded thing, yet lives in thee!