Poems by Fanny Kemble Part 3

Where is thy beauty? in the gra.s.sy blade, There lives more fragrance, and more freshness now; Yet oh! not all the flowers that bloom and fade, Are half so dear to memory's eye as thou.

The dew that on the mountain lies, The breeze that o'er the mountain sighs, Thy parent stem will nurse and nourish; But thou--not e'en those sunny eyes As bright, as blue, as thine own skies, Thou faded thing! can make thee flourish.

SONNET.

'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!

SONNET.

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.

ON A MUSICAL BOX.

Poor little sprite! in that dark, narrow cell Caged by the law of man's resistless might!

With thy sweet liquid notes, by some strong spell, Compelled to minister to his delight!

Whence, what art thou? art thou a fairy wight Caught sleeping in some lily's snowy bell, Where thou hadst crept, to rock in the moonlight, And drink the starry dew-drops, as they fell?

Say, dost thou think, sometimes when thou art singing, Of thy wild haunt upon the mountain's brow, Where thou wert wont to list the heath-bells ringing, And sail upon the sunset's amber glow?

When thou art weary of thy oft-told theme, Say, dost thou think of the clear pebbly stream, Upon whose mossy brink thy fellows play, Dancing in circles by the moon's soft beam, Hiding in blossoms from the sun's fierce gleam, Whilst thou, in darkness, sing'st thy life away?

And canst thou feel when the spring-time returns, Filling the earth with fragrance and with glee; When in the wide creation nothing mourns, Of all that lives, save that which is not free?

Oh! if thou couldst, and we could hear thy prayer, How would thy little voice beseeching cry, For one short draught of the sweet morning air, For one short glimpse of the clear azure sky!

Perchance thou sing'st in hope thou shalt be free, Sweetly and patiently thy task fulfilling; While thy sad thoughts are wandering with the bee, To every bud with honey dew distilling.

That hope is vain: for even couldst thou wing Thy homeward flight back to the greenwood gay, Thou'dst be a shunned and a forsaken thing, 'Mongst the companions of thy happier day.

For fairy sprites, like many other creatures, Bear fleeting memories, that come and go; Nor can they oft recall familiar features, By absence touched, or clouded o'er with woe.

Then rest content with sorrow: for there be Many that must that lesson learn with thee; And still thy wild notes warble cheerfully, Till, when thy tiny voice begins to fail, For thy lost bliss sing but one parting wail, Poor little sprite! and then sleep peacefully!

TO THE PICTURE OF A LADY.

Lady, sweet lady, I behold thee yet, With thy pale brow, brown eyes, and solemn air, And billowy tresses of thy golden hair, Which once to see, is never to forget!

But for short s.p.a.ce I gazed, with soul intent Upon thee; and the limner's art divine, Meantime, poured all thy spirit into mine.

But once I gazed, then on my way I went: And thou art still before me. Like a dream Of what our soul has loved, and lost for ever, Thy vision dwells with me, and though I never May be so blest as to behold thee more, That one short look has stamped thee in my heart, Of my intensest life a living part, Which time, and death, shall never triumph o'er.

FRAGMENT.

Walking by moonlight on the golden margin That binds the silver sea, I fell to thinking Of all the wild imaginings that man Hath peopled heaven, and earth, and ocean with; Making fair nature's solitary haunts Alive with beings, beautiful and fearful.

And as the chain of thought grew link by link, It seemed, as though the midnight heavens waxed brighter, The stars gazed fix'dly with their golden eyes, And a strange light played o'er each sleeping billow, That laid its head upon the sandy beach.

Anon there came along the rocky sh.o.r.e A far-off sound of sweetest minstrelsy.

From no one point of heaven, or earth, it came; But under, over, and about it breathed, Filling my soul with thrilling, fearful pleasure.

It swelled, as though borne on the floating wings Of the midsummer breeze: it died away Towards heaven, as though it sank into the clouds, That one by one melted like flakes of snow In the moonbeams. Then came a rushing sound, Like countless wings of bees, or b.u.t.terflies; And suddenly, as far as eye might view, The coast was peopled with a world of elves, Who in fantastic ringlets danced around, With antic gestures, and wild beckoning motion, Aimed at the moon. White was their snowy vesture, And shining as the Alps, when that the sun Gems their pale robes with diamonds. On their heads Were wreaths of crimson and of yellow foxglove.

They were all fair, and light as dreams; anon The dance broke off; and sailing through the air, Some one way, and some other, they did each Alight upon some waving branch, or flower, That garlanded the rocks upon the sh.o.r.e.

One, chiefly, did I mark, one tiny sprite, Who crept into an orange flower-bell, And there lay nestling, whilst his eager lips Drank from its virgin chalice the night dew, That glistened, like a pearl, in its white bosom.

SONNET.

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.

WRITTEN ON CRAMOND BEACH.

Farewell, old playmate! on thy sandy sh.o.r.e My lingering feet will leave their print no more; To thy loved side I never may return.

I pray thee, old companion, make due mourn For the wild spirit who so oft has stood Gazing in love and wonder on thy flood.

The form is now departing far away, That half in anger oft, and half in play, Thou hast pursued with thy white showers of foam.

Thy waters daily will besiege the home I loved among the rocks; but there will be No laughing cry, to hail thy victory, Such as was wont to greet thee, when I fled, With hurried footsteps, and averted head, Like fallen monarch, from my venturous stand, Chased by thy billows far along the sand.

And when at eventide thy warm waves drink The amber clouds that in their bosom sink; When sober twilight over thee has spread Her purple pall, when the glad day is dead My voice no more will mingle with the dirge That rose in mighty moaning from thy surge, Filling with awful harmony the air, When thy vast soul and mine were joined in prayer.

SONNET.

Away, away! bear me away, away, Into the boundless void, thou mighty wind!

That rushest on thy midnight way, And leav'st this weary world, far, far behind!

Away, away! bear me away, away, To the wide strandless deep, Ye headlong waters! whose mad eddies leap From the pollution of your bed of clay!

Away, away, bear me away, away, Into the fountains of eternal light, Ye rosy clouds! that to my longing sight Seem melting in the sun's devouring ray!

Away, away! oh, for some mighty blast, To sweep this loathsome life into the past!